Mama's Entitlement
by Just Look in the Mirror
Summary: Jake and Francis Fratelli love their mother to pieces and hence abide by her every command, however absurd and inconvenient on their parts. Setting out to fulfill a complicated request, the brothers find early on that it can only be achieved by feigning good-natured guises to lure two lawful women into their crafty trap. Pre-Movie. Jake/OC, Francis/OC.
1. Anything for Ma

**Summary: **Jake and Francis love their mother to pieces and hence abide by her every command, however absurd and inconvenient on their parts. Setting out to fulfill a complicated request, the brothers find early on that it can only be achieved by feigning good-natured guises to lure two lawful women into their crafty trap. Pre-Movie. Jake/OC, Francis/OC.

**A/N:** I wrote a bunch of chapters for this work several years ago, but never got the whole plot fleshed out in part due to weakened motivation in seeing this fandom grow so quiet. I can understand why that is, and maybe it'll glow a bit again once the 35th or 40th anniversary of its release comes along, however I've decided to just go ahead and maybe post a lot of what I have finished now. I may finish at some point. I will post what chapters I have periodically, once or twice a week, see if anybody checks them out. No harm in just putting it up after all. It's just been sitting in dust in my files for too long...

Also, this is a Fratelli-centric fic. The Goonies themselves only have a short role, and that'll be many chapters ahead when our crooks get around to interrogating Chunk followed by their underground treasure hunt.

**Standard Introductory Disclaimer: **I do not own The Goonies. Rights to Donner, Spielberg and other film writers. I do own Ramona Hersden and Lucille Saxe. When recognizable quotes from the movie show up in later chapters, you'll know they're not mine.

Might be re-rated M later on for mature language and themes. Any feedback is highly appreciated.

**Chapter 1**

**Anything for Ma**

_April, 1985_

Brothers and collaborators in criminality Francis and Jake Fratelli had both worshiped their mother from infancy. Her being their sole provider and guide in living desperado-style was reason enough for the perpetual faith they held for her. However, one day when she, out of the blue, sat them down in their hideout and current home: a deserted, run-down restaurant on the Pacific Coast of Astoria, Oregon, for a lecture on how very responsible they were for seeing to the continuation of the Fratelli generations, either man felt that they'd spent an excessive amount of time with the aging bird. Fatherhood was _far_ from landing on either's agenda.

"C'mon, Mama. You can't expect _us_ to reproduce," Jake, her middle son, scoffed, "what, with the kind of life we run? It's a bit dramatic for a little shit to take in, eh?"

"Maybe so, my boy, but didn't I raise you two just superbly teaching you the principles I did?" Mama said, spit-shining a dirty mug to fill it up with rum and hand it to her eldest, Francis.

"Of course, Mother!" either brother exclaimed in unison. The consequence for even thinking about disagreeing was probably drastic.

Mama's smirk intensified the wrinkles in her haggard face. "Right, so what's the problem here?" She eyed her sons suspiciously. "Neither of you are fruity, are ya?"

Both tisked heartily. "Absolutely not, Ma!"

"Well, I'm getting up there, and so are you two. Francis, you turned thirty-six February, and, Jacob, you're gonna be thirty-five December. Why, I harbored and pushed you boys out before I was thirty."

"But wasn't Pa in his forties when—oof!"

"We're not supposed to talk about him, you retard!" Francis scolded, having punched Jake in the gut.

"Hey, now! That word's prohibited in here!" Mama snapped, reflectively lamenting her youngest son's unusual and tragic birth defect. "I hear either of you call your brother down there that again, no matter what stupid crap he shows off, it's the wood chipper for your willies!"

Both nodded in submission, gulping. Francis nor Jake were clued in to what happened to their father Joseph Fratelli when he suddenly vanished after Ma's and his quarrel took a spin for hell one winter day back in 1960. In spite of the copious mass of ground mystery meat that was fed to the hounds over the following couple of weeks, neither boy dared to question their old man's whereabouts or becomings. It'd been gruesomely apparent at any rate.

Mama sighed, lumbering around the counter to slump on the stool beside Francis. "We Fratellis are dying out. It's just me, you boys,—"

"Sloth," Jake interposed from his table chair. "The defective monstrosity he is, he'd make a better dad than France or me, truth be told."

"Jacob! What the hell did I just get done tellin' you?!"

"You know it's true, Ma," Jake defended. "The oaf's as innocent as they come. Never even hurt a fly. Now, him and I," he pointed to his older, bespectacled brother, "we're fresh from stuffing Mr. Prim in the freezer."

Francis scowled. "But just who would spread her legs for that—ow! Sorry, I'm sorry, Mama!"

Mama's slightly throbbing right palm returned to her side. "That's my final warning to both of ya! But thank ya for bringing that issue to light, my dear! Aye, just who would copulate with my bashful, helpless third?"

"We could always snatch a random girl off a street corner," Francis suggested with wicked sincerity. "She's all by herself and vulnerable, we knock her out and bring her back here. It's about time Lotney lose his virginity anyway."

"You boys really think he'd take advantage of her like that?" Mama snorted. "He's not anything like you fellas. He's a good boy."

"Wouldn't bet he'd know where to stick it anyhow..." Jake said. "Doubt he's even potent enough to impregnate-"

"Cram it!" Mama's arms were flexed, hands crumpled into shaking fists, teeth grinding. "It's up to you two to sow your seeds and ensure our family line's progression, period."

"Oh, but aren't we too scary for this town's sweet, moral honeys?" Jake said pointedly. His purpose for helping himself to the occasional hooker rather than bother with a committed relationship with some pretty girl was not for nothing.

Mama considered his words for the first time since commencing this discussion, though she'd always done so minimally. "If you boys are smart and can dupe a gal like I hope you can, then what's there to worry?"

"Please, I couldn't even try to better my morals just to woo a bitch," Francis admitted. "Would be pointless. I only know how to live one way and it's not to do with society's norm." He patted the wad of counterfeits in his pants' left pocket. "I wouldn't change this lifestyle for diddly squat."

"_Something's_ to change, alright!" Mama howled, her tolerance thinning quick. "Don't either of you get me wrong, we are who we are, but mark my words, more of us are to spawn awful damn soon here, ya boys understand?"

"Yes, Ma!" the brothers replied, yielding.

She shook her head in disbelief and annoyance. "Acting like a couple of nervous adolescents, you are. Hesitant to find women and settle down...That's where your late daddy fell short, the deadbeat bastard."

"Whoa now, Mama, I _can_ get a lady. Any lady I desire," Jake spoke up coolly.

"Glad to see you've begun to take me seriously, sweetheart." She switched a stern eye onto Francis. "I do hope you pull your head outta your ass, too, Fran—"

A roar not unlike a chorus of a hundred choking bears echoed into the room from the depths downstairs, cutting her off.

"COMING, MY BOY!" She made for the fridge to grab her incarcerated man-child's lunch of spam. Ripping the metal lid off with her bare right hand, she tromped towards the basement, dismissing them with, "What're ya waitin' for? You best not be loitering about when I return!"

Jake and Francis boogied outside for the family jeep, more hellbent on bearing kids of their own than ever before.

* * *

"You know I love Ma, but sometimes, just _sometimes_, I contemplate beating it." Jake sighed out a puff of smoke. "Could lay low in the outskirts of this one town by Corvallis, give Ma a call every so often."

"Keep dreaming," Francis snickered. "No way in hell Ma would condone that."

"What if I don't always give a flying fuck what she wants or thinks of me?" He flicked his cigarette stub out the window. "What she's requesting of us now is goddamn ludicrous."

"Don't feed me that bullshit, Jake. We're both pathetically devoted to her."

"I'm not cut out to be a pop. Kids irk the hell out of me, and they do you, too." Jake presented the horizon off in the distance with a grimace. "We're chilly down to the bone, but are we twisted enough to ruin some broad's life?"

"Dunno about you, but I'm fine with it." Francis shrugged. He could speak for how many women from bars and strip clubs he'd drugged and defiled. Jake differed in his mildly higher conscience and respect for the opposite gender.

"You want a baby to occupy our whole schedule day in and day out? From the sounds of it, she is wanting us both breeding in the near future, so make that _two_ dependent tykes."

Francis agreed strongly with his sibling and best friend, but really, what could he do? "You can go ahead and try to persuade Ma otherwise. Be my guest."

"I wouldn't if my life depended on it."

"That's wise, recognizing, and even harder than that, accepting, that Ma rules us." Francis sighed. "Will till she kicks the bucket."


	2. Ramona

_Italian Translations (in order):_

Grazie a Dio = Thank God

ragazza = girl

nonna = grandmother

* * *

**Chapter 2 **

**Ramona**

An evening later into that April, Jake drove the winding road headed for the shack, a six-pack of beer and a Godfather's large pepperoni pizza steaming in the backseat. The windshield wipers poorly swept the pounding storm off the glass to provide him with a clear view ahead, but he made do with the incessant droplets' blurring. About four minutes from home, his headlights flashed golden rays on a bedraggled young brunette woman walking up the roadside to his right. Her curly, shoulder-length hair was damp and frizzy, droopy hazel eyes showed her fatigue. The beauty she possessed and her state of solitude was quite sufficient to hook-and-line him in. '_Bingo.'_ He stomped on the brake, the jeep's screeching halt startling her as she jumped with enlarged eyes.

Rolling his window down, Jake said, "Hey! Ya wanna lift somewhere?"

She eyed him warily but nodded, jogging up.

'_Look at those tits bounce...'_ Jake observed naughtily, then ogling her curvy hips. Her build was not scrawny nor athletic but short and shapely, and for that, he was pleased. There was no checklist to his name for any woman; he liked variety, but this one's physical attributes suited his subconscious preferences to a T.

"Thank you, sir!" she said with a yawn. She got in, all trusting, and Jake was briefly tempted to whack her out cold with the half-empty forty flo. oz. vodka bottle underneath his seat, tie her up back at the shack. Then, with patience, he believed, earn her love and affection through her dependency. However, he brushed this idea off for the moment as another idea bloomed.

"No problem, uh—"

"I'm Ramona," she said sweetly.

"Jake Fra—uh, Jake Fralo."

As an outlaw, Jake had to be discreet when out in public, opting to venture to the seediest regions of Astoria only when seeking out a random whore for a lonely night. As a wholehearted Mama's boy, he left the crotchety woman's side seldom, as did Francis. When Mama needed something, anything, he and Frances would create great mayhem to achieve whatever for her. Another baby Fratelli she wanted, another baby Fratelli she'd have, but first, Jake had to win a heart, and with a participant here and all...

"So what're ya doing out here hitchhiking? There are weirdos out this time of night, even in the rain."

"Well, I wasn't hitchhiking, actually," she said. "I was just walking home from my friend's farewell party. I work at Jones' Diner and she did until today. She's moving out of the city with her fiance. So at this party, there were drinks, and people drank them, including the girl who drove me there...In a nutshell, she passed out on the couch and I was too sleepy to wait around for her to come to. When I left it was only sprinkling." She sighed, her expression telling Jake how funny she felt regaling this tale to him, a complete stranger. "Uh, I don't live too far from here, actually. I can just—"

"It's no problem at all," he curtly assured her. "Where to?"

"624 Bentley Street. Thank you so much."

This would be a piece of cake if she was single, as he'd merely hoped, but if she wasn't, yet another body, the one of her boyfriend, fiance or husband, would be joining four others underground amid the handy woods. Committing senseless murder hadn't ever been one of Jake's favorite pursuits, as Francis got off on it more, but if it was essential to meeting his selfish goals, then so be it.

Backing up and turning around, he broke some ice with, "You have fun at that party?"

"Mm, parties aren't my cup of tea, to be honest. Being among crowds in a single room can make me antsy. I'm a wallflower. I had a good time, though...before Shelly thoroughly intoxicated herself."

"Why didn't ya join in? Alcohol ain't your cup of tea?"

"Nah. I like wine coolers sometimes after a long day at work or running errands. I've gotta be careful, too. Still can't purchase the hard stuff for another eleven months."

Jake then calculated her at twenty. He was fourteen and a half when she was in Pampers.

"I see. I was boozing several years before it was legal for me." And he'd done a fair many misdeeds aside from that, even in his youth.

"Like a few friends of mine," she chuckled. "Were you going home?"

"I'm swinging a pizza by my ma's. I try to have dinner with her a few nights a week. She gets lonely," he said, improvising on the spot. "Eh, feel free to help yourself to some from back there. It's pepperoni."

"Oh, no, thank you. I ate already. Are her and your dad separated?"

"He's dead," he replied without thinking, "...to me. He left us; my brothers, Ma and I when I was nine. Dunno where that bastard went or what happened to 'im."

"Oh, geez. I'm very sorry." She patted his upper right arm. "That was nosy of me. I shouldn't have..."

"Don't worry about it. Ma turned out just fine. She's a strong woman."

He cursed inwardly when the warm, delicate pads of her fingers whisked down the flesh of his arm and rested again in her lap. Nearing her street, the question he had to pop if he were to have those same fingers play in his pants someday was at the tip of his tongue, ready to launch.

She fumbled through the contents of her purse for a minute, finding and opening her wallet. Jake chortled when she tried to hand him a five as he pulled up her driveway.

"I'm sorry; this is all I have on me."

"Whoa, whoa, what're ya doin'? I ain't a cabbie."

"This is my thanks for the trouble."

"Whether you consider these past six minutes troubling or not, I want more of it." He smiled at her slyly. "How about a date?"

He wasn't one for getting permission from people other than Mama, but ordering her attendance would start them off negatively. A restraining order this early on wouldn't appease Mama nor himself. And forget another gal. There was something special about this one. He already couldn't scrape her out from under his skin.

A look of surprise came over her complexion, and with a rosy blush, she murmured, "Um, okay. Let me write down my number for you."

Having applied a fitting amount of suave, self congratulations were due, the smirk forming on his face compensating for a pat on the back or high-five. Using her thigh as a surface, she scrawled away while Jake basked in his fantasized foresight of their future. He'd see to their terms going smoothly, so that her stomach would be swelling with their child by five or six months tops. His plan was absurd, yes, but Mama didn't exactly have a saint's patience, let alone any of one's characteristics. Her boys didn't like to imagine what shrewish chaos she'd unleash for having to put her needs on hold for too long, so they were safest just getting them done with promptly.

Jake wasn't assertive or dull enough to think Ramona would deliberately conceive; she was young and had her whole life on a vast, clean platter and a baby was the kind of hassle she likely couldn't afford. He'd have to catch her off guard. The kid would be a surprise, whether unpleasant or not on her part, he didn't really care.

"Thanks bunches for the ride, Jake." She handed him the freshly inked scrap paper, smiling as she stepped out of the jeep. "You call me. Bye."

"I swear. Night, angel."

* * *

"She's _not_ a stripper, goddamn you, Jake! I told ya, she just serves drinks there!"

Jake chuckled at his brother's offended pique. Francis fawned for a babe more than he'd concede, Jake could tell. "Hey, hey, cool it. I'm just messin' with ya. Even if she was one, where would I be rightly concerned?"

Francis shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Lucille's a fucking goddess. Long legs, blue doe eyes, a silky blonde head of hair long enough to jerk when she cuts outta line…"

"Chicken, you haven't even talked to her, have ya?"

"I will! She's got this...that snooty air about her that many of 'em do. She goes for the affluent assholes, I'm sure. The mob...maybe the mayor. I've seen him in there dozens of times."

"The mob round here's a joke. She ever look your way like you have her entranced?"

"Shut the hell up, Jake." Francis parked in the shadiest section of their usual forest's burial grounds. "I may not be the charmer you think you are, but my dominance is surefire to get her to drop to her knees, bend over, and spread those thighs wide for me."

"If you say so—hey, I don't see the shovels. They're back there, right?" Jake patted around the thawing corpse behind their seats.

"Better be," Francis muttered, getting out. He opened the trunk and dragged the stiff until it met the woodsy floor with a dead thud. "There they are. He was laying on top of 'em."

"Grazie a Dio," Jake huffed in his native tongue. He really didn't feel like going back to the shack for the tools.

"Get your ass out here and help, you lummox!"

"Hold your damn horses, France."

Jake wanted to wear his smoke down to a stub before engaging in the arduous task of burying a human body. They never bothered with the 'six feet under' rule of thumb as their backs were too sore by three. They weren't paid grave diggers anyway. They'd kill, and if they were weary, they'd stow the unfortunate sucker in their freezer with all the _Swensen's_ for a day or two. The duo tried to keep their kills at a minimum over the years, but some folk would cross their lines, whether inadvertently or not.

Mr. Prim (who was dubbed that because he was a prim, well-dressed, businessman of the higher class) had done just that, having thrown a snit when the men's jeep scraped against his Ferrari while backing out of a liquor store's parking lot early the other morning. Jake and Francis gave their cheap sorries, but Prim was displeased regardless, demanding insurance involvement. The lot was vacant, so Prim's heart got pierced with a bullet from the jeep's glove compartment and his bleeding form was hauled into the trunk. Mama and they were fairly grateful for the plentiful cash tucked in his wallet along with the credit cards. Prim had ultimately handed his fate over to some of Astoria's dirtiest hands.

"Let's have this shithead be our last for a while," Francis grunted, tugging Prim across soft earth by his ankles. Jake sped up the transport by lugging him by his cold wrists. "This always wears me the fuck out."

"It's great exercise, though, isn't it?" Jake said to lighten the circumstance up.

Setting the corpse down to rest on a grassy bank, they retrieved the shovels and dug up dirt and roots, quitting once their hole was amply spacious. Prim was tossed in and covered up as though he were bile. He certainly was garbage and nothing more in their debauched, hypocritical eyes.

"Hope he didn't have kids," Francis mumbled nonchalantly, stomping the grave's layers of soil flat alongside the other.

"Ah, they're better off without his prissy, Right-wing preachings."

"True."

"We're gonna raise our own to not accept anyone's shit." Jake spat at their fresh bury. "I'll be damned before my son or daughter kisses ass."

* * *

That Friday night at eight, Jake retired to the downstairs den to phone Ramona after Sloth was fed his dinner of amateur opera and rotted fruit. Formality had missed the Italian-American felon throughout his life, but he'd force its presence now. He'd be the gentleman he broadly wasn't just for this woman, the eventual mother of his eventual child.

He was putting off his slew of theft and miscellaneous crimes so as to keep out of the news, and he asked Mama and Francis to refrain to their best abilities as well. Francis was cooperative for his personal benefit; Lucille's taste in the bloodlust sort of unlawful fellas was presumably lacking, though he'd yet to confirm that. Mama, however, scathingly refuted she'd do whatever the blistering hell she wanted and needed to do. She hadn't minded mugshots or their notorious name and how it, at times, landed in the Astoria Ledger's front page. Although the headlines made her feel worthy and accomplished, they simultaneously told her to be inconspicuous post-breakout, because if Fratelli grandchildren were to be, each of the clan would do well to clean up and behave.

For the next five minutes, Jake busied his thoughts with who he was pretending to be for Ramona. So little truth about himself could be unveiled. Frustrating as that was, lies would lead him to her heart, plenty of dips into her panties and perhaps even her soul. He would savor her soul, especially since the one he possessed was charred black and could've used some light.

'_Bari, Italy-born, two brothers, opera extraordinaire...'_

The truths he would preach.

'_Repairman, it's generic enough...Francis...he scrubs toilets. My younger brother? He lives way out in Los Angeles. Recently betrothed. Manages a soup kitchen for the homeless. Ma's a retired nurse.'_

The fabrications.

He dialed, and four beeps later received her soft, unsure voice.

"Hello, this is the Hersden residence."

"How're ya doin', Ramona?"

"Jake? Oh, um, I've been fine. Nothing momentous has really happened in the last four days."

"Same here. Been helping my ma renovate her place. She's a recently resigned hospice nurse, you see, and-"

"A _nurse_?!" the hag herself screeched from the nearby freezer, a pint of Rocky Road in her grip. Although she understood he was safer off not boasting on the family 'business', she glared something gruesome her second son's way, not wanting to play an ex-nurse of all possibilities. Her abyss-low sympathy for others would really make even feigning to be one a challenge. Jake gulped for the fire Ma was ready to rain upon him once he hung up.

"...and her arthritis keeps her from completing some of those uh, more tricky chores. I'm a repairman myself, so any household rupture she gets, I'm always happy to intervene."

Mama's fiery glower could've quietened the rowdiest of demons. Arthritis, her ass, despite her actual sufferance of it.

"That's very sweet of you. My dad is beginning to suffer from arthritis. He's fifty-nine and works as a stockbroker and my mom is a homemaker. She does community volunteering. She organized a mini fundraiser for MS research earlier this year. One of her best friends died from it in February...Um, but on some lighter notes, I have a little brother, Dylan, who just turned sixteen. He's a sophomore at Astoria High." The shake in her voice eased. "I graduated from there a couple years ago. I've been a bit unfocused about getting my feet in the right 'adult' direction...but I've been considering going into cosmetology with a friend from work, but it's a booked practice here in the city right now. I started waiting tables at Jones' last year. I put a portion of what I make into a savings account for my brother. He's looking to attend the University of Oregon to study sports medicine, but I'm worried about his debt in student loans, so I'm supporting his ambition. My parents are nagging me to work at something bigger for myself, but right now I'm just going about my business with that five days out of the week."

There was a brief thoughtful pause.

"I'm a photographer; a rookie, though. I make collages of flowers, bugs, animals, sometimes people. I get creative. I paint too, mostly outdoorsy stuff; a sunset over a lake, sunny, midday meadows...oh, one time I tried a nude self-portrait in my bedroom, but I uh, don't like how it turned out...Geez, I've yakked my share, haven't I?" she laughed.

Jake was cool with that. Relieved, actually. The more she had to announce, the less he'd have to fabricate for her. She could talk his eardrums to death for all he cared.

"Not to worry at all. Your schedule sounds more eventful than mine. It's a bit too dull over here. I haven't been up to...reputable shenanigans."

Mama snorted a thick "touche" from the threshold.

"Ah, fixing the same old faucets and leaky holes?" Ramona said.

'_Yeah, all those fucks _are _the same.' _The ones that got to meet their demise à la Fratelli handgun.

"Oh yeah."

"Do you have any siblings?"

"My older brother, Francis. He's got two years on me. Bit of a lowlife, really. Does the occasional odd job in town. Cleaning johns in that biker bar on Reed Street at the moment."

Mama's snort almost reached the other end of the line.

"My other brother, Slo—_ahem_, Lotney, he's living in LA with his newlywed honey. Runs one of those soup kitchens for the needy. He's more respectable than France or I, I'd say. The only charity work I've done is sing opera in joints here and there. Not to boast, but it can soothe the soul."

"Oh? You wanna show me?"

Never shy to show off his flair for the curious bystander, or in this scenario, listener, he obliged quickly, belting the libretti to _Madama Butterfly_, his favorite and most perfected opera piece. Mama deemed his stunning vocals for what they were, but she could only stand the musical projections for so long. Over a minute into his singing, she trudged from the vicinity with her ice cream, keen on returning to rebuke Jake's choice of former work for her later on.

"Wow! God, that's amazing!" Ramona exclaimed as he slowly wrapped up. "You should do that professionally."

'_Would if I could,'_ he thought grimly. Who'd hire a crook, and a homicidal one at that?

"Nah, I'm not _that_ excelled, peach."

"Oh, don't be so modest! You're phenomenal. Nobody would think otherwise."

By coincidence, the Neanderthal mightily groaned from his chamber next door. Unfortunately, she'd caught it.

"What was-"

"A bear, I'm sure," Jake blurted. "I'm at Ma's. She lives downhill from a wooded area, right along the Pacific Coast. The view is gorgeous at sunrise and sunset."

"I'd like to see it."

"You will...some time. You're gonna love-"

"**AAAAAHHH!"**

"Son of a bitch—Hey, Ramona, I've, uh, got to take care of something. How about I pick you up tomorrow night for dinner? Talk more in person, eh?"

"Mmhm…Well, goodnight."

"I'll be seeing ya." He slammed their conversation out regretfully, in fear that his boorish younger brother would bellow out again. He stormed for the captive's cell, his cudgel in his clutch.

Sloth flinched in his seat when what disproportional organ propped in his thick, contorted skull registered his bothered brother and neglectful caretaker's intrusion. The dreary room's door exploded open, indicating the usual uh-oh. As to what he'd done inappropriately this time, he couldn't say. He might've hollered at the TV when Frankenstein slaughtered his bride, but he wasn't _too_ loud, was he? He peered at the twisted look on his older, smaller brother's face, realizing he had been.

"What the fuck did I warn you of not ten minutes ago, you baboon? Can't you keep it down for ten, twenty godforsaken minutes?"

"Sorrry, I sorry, Ja—AH! AH! PLEEEASE!"

"I had a beautiful little lady on the phone, and she overheard your caveman bullshit!" Jake cracked the club against the tethered man's shoulder once more. "The hell am I supposed to tell her when it goes on and on and on?!" Another swing. "It's far too clear and close for a bear or wolf, isn't it?"

"SORRY! SORRRRY!"

"Why don't you scream at the top of your lungs some more, huh? You do it so often, why don't you do it now?! Really belt it out like you did so rudely for my ragazza!" Six fat bruises would elongate Sloth's right upper arm so far. "You see, stupido? You cry and wail when in pain, _not_ over a fucking movie! I ought to confiscate that damned thing! Make you sit here in the boring and quiet dark till you croak!"

"NOOOO! IT ALL SLOTH HAVE!" Tears streamed down the clefts of his jagged face.

"You create a din like that again, whether I'm on the telephone in the other room or have the lady here to visit, that television set goes bye-bye for good _and_ I'll be down here even _less_ to feed you, eh? Can you memorize those words?"

Snuffling noisily, he nodded.

"You best. You botch this for me, there'll be hell to pay." Jake dismissed himself by treating Sloth's lopsided head to a final punishing blow before striding out to the hummed melody of _Je veux vivre_.

* * *

Jake held Ramona's interest, but for no solid purpose. She guessed she was attracted to his general looks, that subtly foreign accent, and the dozen plus years he had on her. The several dates she'd ever been on had gone nowhere memorable. A fellow waitress friend Miranda had called her a ditsy dreamer when she went on about this Jake guy's enticing aura, but Ramona just couldn't seem to depict him in any other way. His smile, cocksure as it was, had spurred a flock of butterflies in her stomach. She'd no excuse not to get to know him. An extroverted socialite she hardly was, but if he had a nice pair of ears and a tender heart, she was down for a new friend, or a boyfriend, whichever he'd become.

It was her day off, and she was up at the first sign of dawn. Into the afternoon, she showered, doused every square inch of her body in perfume and rummaged through her closet for her navy-blue sundress, the one that accentuated her breasts and showed off her legs best. The four ounces of schnapps she'd drank managed to lighten her bad case of anxiety. She tamed her unruly curls to some extent with globs of hair gel and slathered her lashes with mascara, opting to go easy on the eyeliner for a desired soft, modest look.

To kill time before Jake was due to arrive, she skimmed that month's issue of _Cosmopolitan_. Try as she might to rid her lasting apprehension, it persisted through two episodes of _Cheers_ and a counseling from her mother Dana to be careful with this man.

Hearing that this date of hers "looked about thirty-two or so" hadn't quite stricken Dana as appropriate, but her daughter was several years past the starting age of consent. Nevertheless, John Hersden, her father, argued that while she lived under his roof, his rules for her still stood and he didn't want to see her get romantically involved with "some middle-aged pervert". He only came to compose himself, and in trailing hours, once Dana reminded him of their own somewhat thick gap in age.

Ramona skipped out to the driveway when the jeep pulled in twenty-three minutes late. Unbeknownst to her, Jake's mother hadn't hustled while out picking up milk and meat, and her out-of-town gambling session with her old spinster pals oozed over an hour. Seeing how his tardiness gave her extra time to doll herself up, he assumed she wasn't annoyed. Girls fixated on that, he remembered, valued each second they had to load on their excess makeup and hairspray.

"Had a flat tire," he explained anyway.

"No, Jake, you're okay. I've waited out forty minutes for guys before."

'_How many guys?'_ he wondered, the possibility of her innocence belonging to another moron automatically ruffling his feathers. It did, he thought, because she was a bombshell, and better yet, a bubbly one. A real sweetheart. To this point, she hadn't snapped out any stuffy derision for him as his mother did religiously. He'd shielded himself for a hiss, snort or smack when he dared to ask her out, but she'd seen through it, or rather, didn't, to pleasantly surrender a yes.

"Where to, sweet?" Jake asked.

"Oh, surprise me."

"Can do."

He wore curled lips for a wordless three minutes rounding curbs. She shifted in her seat, a sigh of easing tension loosed as she gazed at the passing houses and quaint shops which lined the streets of the Goon Docks. A short while passed, and Ramona turned to Jake, their hushed space too uncomfortable.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-four." His smirk lived on. "How old did ya think I was?"

"Er, I had a close estimate."

"Am I too old for you?" he laughed.

"Not at all!" she objected in a nervy tone. "Men my age tend to annoy me, though. They're still too immature and committed to their varsity sports and drinking than their work or intimate stuff."

"Aye, so it's those wiser jerks who've some age on 'em that tickles your fancy?"

"Well, I can't get along with _any_ jerk, regardless of his age," she noted with a laugh.

"But in some sense, every man's one. A certain level of vanity runs rampant in our sex. It's what keeps us going, Ramona."

"That is just loving yourself. There's nothing wrong there. I love myself, not as much as I do my family and friends, but...well, God put us here, didn't he? We're supposed to value and provide for ourselves, and more importantly, others, to our full potential. Now, a jerk is somebody who is solely devoted to themself and their wants."

'_She's a philosophical one...'_

"What's your take on criminals?" Testing the waters. He'd block her inquisitive nose from all the reality he was able to, but alas, the probability she'd find out someday was high.

"They're scum."

Her answer was disheartening, albeit typical, as he'd knowingly selected a Good Samaritan; his polar opposite. Devil and Angel they'd be. Thrills built up, partnered with a heavily scheming frame of mind for how his plans for this woman would roll.

"Thankfully, crime rates aren't too high here in Astoria. It'd suck to have to carry a gun around in my purse, and to have to use it on somebody. Ugh, I wouldn't ever live it down."

"Hey, you're safe and secure with me, but when you're all by yourself and susceptible, you at least have Mace handy, eh?"

"Oh, I do already," she said. "Mom's orders."

"You been here?"

The Indian Grill approached their view. It was a bijou restaurant adjoining a thrift store and a salon on one of the Goon Docks' quieter streets.

"No, but it looks splendid. I don't recall ever trying any Indian dishes."

"Their menu's a bit foreign, but I've gotten the, uh, mung bean dosa and pork vindaloo, and they were both flavorful."

The spicier entrees were to thank for his nasty bout of molten fire-ass that lasted two days after dining there sometime during the spring of '83, but he'd just advise Ramona to veer from those.

"I'll surprise myself, order something random that resembles vomit but smells five-star."

Jake again congratulated his choice in babe. Outspoken, vivacious, ripe for the picking, compliant, not picky or whiny. A real _phew_. He bid Francis fun with his snubbing, titty bar-employed trollop. Ramona was already promising oodles of potential. Perhaps Ma'd be a nonna sooner than he'd imagined.

**x**

**x**

I will probably edit and upload some more chapters soon. Thank you for reading.


	3. Lucille

_Translations (in order):_

_niente = nothing_

_Sì = yes_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**Lucille**

Jake sat motionless in his seat, mesmerized, as the passenger's door was pushed shut. Once Ramona was out of his view in her house, he licked his lips which were glazed with her cherry gloss. On his drive home, he reran the peck she gave in his mind. He could still smell the remnants of her very girly fragrance and taste the subtle Cajun pasta spice of her mouth.

When he brought her home, she thanked him for the "swell dinner" and then got out, only to climb back in and thank him furthermore with an ephemeral kiss, pulling away before he could reciprocate ravenously. He saw the rosy embarrassment on her face, and it was a damn gorgeous sight.

"Guess we'll meet again soon," she murmured, moving out quicker and clumsier than she had the first time.

"_Christ, yes,"_ the felon muttered to himself upon reaching the shack and parking in the space they used as a garage. He moseyed up to the porch aroused, his feelings for this girl unusually developed and intense, though this could have been because she was the first in years to pay him affection free of charge.

"How'd it go?" Mama asked from the threshold to their dilapidated living room. "She pregnant yet?"

"Uh, no, Ma. But we had a grand time," he replied, hurrying for his bedroom. In his privacy, he stripped and dove under the covers to masturbate like he was once more a boy of fifteen, mind cleared of all but sexual images of a nude Ramona.

"_Mona, Mona, Mona," _he groaned, nearly starving for her caress.

* * *

Once a month, Jake and Francis would travel out at least a couple hours from Astoria to rob convenience stores and gas stations. They wore ski masks and gloves, just as skilled burglars should have, and were armed with their handguns, though they normally didn't even have to cock them. What they'd make away with was their main source of income. Any spare money depended on those they'd murder on occasion, and Mama gambled, earning approximately a hundred bucks for a round, but for many sessions, quite less than that wound up in her purse.

On this day, the brothers hit the road before the birds were chirping. Jake had slept well and was in a fairly joyous mood, whereas Francis was pouting and disgruntled because Lucille wouldn't bat a lash at him in any of the stare-downs he'd give her. Jake, pompous in his bragging about how his objective had already _smooched_ him, was inspiring Francis to officially ask out his crush. Hell, why not that night, he decided.

"Whenever I compliment the bitch, she returns the silent treatment," Francis groused as he entered the shack with the other, their pockets and pillowcases stuffed with stolen cash.

"You ever consider maybe she's a lesbian? It's sensible. She works around exotic dancers, and she isn't one herself."

"If she is, I'm determined to change that."

Jake chuckled, dumping his load onto a clear tabletop with Francis. They'd pooled in so much that morning that bills were cascading off the sides. It was a glorious sight for Mama to behold upon tromping in, fresh from feeding Sloth his breakfast.

"Well done, boys!" she congratulated, smacking her hands together enthusiastically.

Either smirked. Striking the woman's chords was always rewarding. They stepped back as she pawed at the pile of greens, sitting down to count and sort it all out between them. As per routine she would split the total three ways, just as she'd done since they were kids, and let them have the most while she kept what she made gambling for herself.

"There's three-fifty for ya, Francis, and...let's see here...three-thirty for ya, Jake."

"Thanks, Ma," Francis chirped.

"Why does he get more?" Jake whined, reverting to his old pubescent mindset. France had been granted the bigger share all their lives.

"Because I'm her favorite, numbnuts," Francis snickered.

"You fellas be productive with that now," Mama said, her eyes steely and her index finger wagging. "Jake, sometime within the next few weeks, I'd like to meet this Ramona gal. See if she's suitable enough for ya, and me."

"You'll love her, Ma. She's real peachy and agreeable," Jake said confidently, pocketing his allowance.

"She Italian?" Mama asked with crossed arms.

"I, uh, don't think so."

"I'd prefer to keep our line pure, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. S'long as she's up my alley behavior-wise."

He nodded uneasily. Mama could be very picky. She hadn't gotten along with many of the girls he'd introduced her to in the past. Ramona contrasted from Jake in likely every aspect, and she also highly likely did with Mama, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. Generally, what Mama said went; her word was final, but now Jake wouldn't be ridding himself of his new girlfriend just like that, whether his boss wished for such or not.

"I'll see you later, Mama. I'm going third-rate apartment hunting," Jake said, waving her off.

"Why? What's wrong with this place?" she spat.

"Oh, niente, Mama. It's just that I ought to have my own residence since I now have a girlfriend, y'know?"

"Yeah, you're right. But be alert out there, and remember that even if and when you live elsewhere, I still get to meet this girl."

"Sì, Ma." He kissed her goodbye, and then was off to look into the city's cheapest living quarters.

* * *

Ramona went shopping with her mom after church let out on Sundays. In their aisle cruising, Ramona spoke of her job, her largest tips, the customers in general, waitress gossip, and as of late, Jake Fralo. Last night, carried away, she'd kissed him, and she wasn't one for that sort of gesture on first dates, normally. She could say she was attracted to him by an expanding degree. He was somehow behaviorally unique from other men, but she couldn't put her finger on how; it was just a hunch.

"This guy only popped into your life, what, five days ago," Dana scolded. "Well, while we're here, go grab some _Trojans_ and throw them in the cart."

"God, Mom, stop it!" Ramona giggled, a pink tinge creeping up in her skin. "He's hot, and he's a gentleman. I couldn't really help myself. If I do sleep with him, it won't be for a while."

"I don't exactly want you losing your virginity to somebody fifteen years older than you, darling."

"Fourteen, actually...and, hey! I hate that word! Can you keep it down?" she asked, shading puce. Her friends had all done the deed by their late teens, whereas she hadn't mustered the confidence nor comfort to venture past first base with the two boys she'd ever been with. She was partly ashamed of her insecurity and chastity, especially when her own grandma would sometimes tease her about it.

"You've grown into a pretty, personable woman, hon. Older, experienced men like him are bent on tearing up your kind."

"Hypocrite. Dad has thirteen years on you," she quipped.

"And I was almost twenty-seven when I met him."

Ramona scanned a row of _Stouffer's_ frozen meals, shaking her head lightly. "The chemistry in our kiss...it was like this little zap of electricity. It was splendid, and I was so okay. I just hope I didn't offend him."

"Oh, I seriously doubt you offended him, but I fear you might've egged him on, given him false expectations. If he starts fondling you against your assent, you know when to say no, hm?"

Ramona's eyes rolled towards the ceiling. "Yes. That shouldn't happen, though. He's not a pervert. I'm sure he'll comply to slowness and actually letting our relationship build."

The elder curly brunette held in her disagreement. Seeing her daughter so excited about this man was cute but also worrying because she was in danger of getting her heart broken. Ramona had inherited the emotional and sensitive tendencies of her mom, thus, Jake had evidence to present that he was good, and not just some sleazy charmer. To obtain this evidence, Dana would be inviting him over for a proper home dinner in the near future.

* * *

Skittering roaches. Splotches of mold on the walls. A faint, lingering bodily stink to the halls. Stained carpet. Flickering lights. It was no wonder there was plentiful availability. Jake shrugged. This would do.

"What's the rent?"

"Two-sixty a month," said the stouter, heavy-set, droopy-lidded landlord Mike. "Basic amenities include water, heating, cable-"

"Can I check out a suite?"

"A couple of college kids just moved out of 32 on the third floor. You can have a look around, but it won't be ready to move into for two weeks or so."

"Yeah, alright." Jake followed Mike to the staircase, the elevator, quintessentially, out of use.

* * *

Francis, the exemplary stalker he was, had Lucille's shift memorized. She served tables from five to one a.m., Tuesday through Saturday at The Dollhouse, a strip joint on the same street as an adult video shop and tattoo parlor. Her legs were long and toned; she stood about an inch shorter than him. It was a bummer, not topping out at six-foot-two like Jake, or Sloth's monstrous six-eight, but Francis accepted his height as he believed a man should. He was a menacing brute nonetheless. He could have the nation slave over him if he craved that sort of power. Since he didn't, he shed away hours working up the nerve to ask the barmaid to be his.

"_Don't be such a wussy!"_ Mama would growl if she'd seen him now, so lousy. Like his younger brother, he hadn't formerly been one to date, but instead, screw the odd easy lady, no strings attached. He didn't comprehend relationships, but was schooled in lust, just as he was for murdering, crafting woodwork and writing poetry. This woman had been the bullseye of his obsession for thirty-three days, and she took note, he surmised, judging her glares.

"Lucille..." He drawled her name after purposefully glancing at her name tag, where it was penned out in cursive. "A feminine and classy name for a woman of the like."

"Yeah, yeah, you're only the billionth sap to flirt with me up in here," she scoffed, combing and tucking her side-swept blonde bangs behind her right ear, his tab in her left hand. "Why don't you go talk to Shimmer up there, the slut with the fattest, albeit fake knockers."

"Those are stunning, but I've more interest in yours."

"I have a boyfriend," she said flatly.

"Cut me a break, babe! Can't ya tell I have a crush on ya?" he blurted. "Nowadays, I only hang around here to gaze at you."

Her blue eyes piercing, she slapped his due amount down before him and snarled, "He's not worth losing to an affair with some lanky, four-eyed dork. If you'll excuse me, he's picking me up in six minutes. Solely by our policy regulations do I bid you a nice night."

She strutted away, leaving him to shred up his bill and swat his batch of empty shot glasses off the table. He sprung from his chair when he saw her pull her jacket on by the entrance five minutes later, and he tailed her outside, staying a distance back.

The snubbing gal wasn't bluffing, he deduced, spying ahead in jealousy as she got into a silver Chevy, buckling in and paying her apparent lover a doting kiss. Nausea coiling in his gut, Francis grumbled out a slew of curses. He knew how ridiculous it was to be this hurt over somebody he'd known, and barely at that, for a measly five weeks, but in spite of the absurdity, he darted for the jeep and continued to trail his token of infatuation and obsession.

Francis snorted and shook his head in derision upon checking out his crush's home of a trailer park. Him, Mama and Jake weren't living a stretch fancier, it appeared, as he cruised into the zone of Astoria's utmost white trash. Fast-food wrappers and broken bottles littered the roadside, and the clotheslines planted on each brief patch of property hinted that washing machines were scanty in this hole. A number of lawns were patched with brownish dying grass, but that was as bad as it got on the surface. Being a poor felon, Francis was no one to rate this area anything lower than six out of ten stars.

The Chevy, rumbly and dated, stopped alongside a mobile home which strongly resembled the surrounding ones in structure but was distinctive for the turquoise tinge of its shingles and the eggshell-white of the roof, and a rusty lawn mower sat against the picket fencing. As the lovebirds sauntered in, arm-in-arm, Francis went to war in an effort not to retch at the probability that they were going to be naked and banging their brains out in seconds to come. He glued his attention to the address and filed it away in his mind with intent to return in hours. For now, he had a grave to prepare.

* * *

"You've gotta be shitting me," Jake said at the wild news his brother had just unleashed. "You're really gonna kill this guy just to get his girl?"

"Yup," Francis replied, reviewing their selection of butcher knives; he was itching to maim this man of Lucille's. The unsuspecting victim's demise would strike following much bloodshed and pain, Francis would ensure. This Fratelli's hot temper and grisly nature did surpass the younger's in intensity, and had from their youth.

"There are plenty of other chicks in the coop...So she gave ya the cold shoulder, so what? Move on. We could go without handling another stiff for awhile, eh?"

"Shut the hell up, Jake! You can't tell me what to do, damn you." He took a deep, cleansing breath in, then out. "The mere thought of slaughtering this bastard makes my dick twitch in delight."

"Aye, aye, whatever floats your twisted boat," Jake chuckled with a wave of his hand. "See you've already dug up his final resting place, you sick fucker."

Indeed, Francis' earlier pursuit was blatant by the smears of dirt on his tank top and filth in his fingernails, the visible sweat stains under his armpits, his toupee also dampened and mussed with the sweat of his exertion.

"I was so adrenalized the hole was through with in less than thirty." He freed the cork from a bottle of gin with his teeth and chugged ferociously. "Shit, am I hyped for this!"

"How are you going about this? Gonna patrol their place till he comes out alone, then you're gonna jump him?"

"I wouldn't balk like that." The gin was set down firmly, knocking against the aged wood of the counter, then Francis' glazed-over drunkenness hardened momentarily so as to reshape his brother's 'yeah, right' attitude a bit. "Lucille's mine once this douchebag is outta the picture. I got it all mapped out. I drive back to the park and attack when he's solo, then I bury him in the woods someplace by the carcasses of Wart Face, Cocksuckers' One, Two, Three and Four, Monobrow, Bucktooth and Prim."

"What's your dub for this guy?"

Francis took another swig, reflecting. "Hindrance," he said. "He's what's blocking my reach to her." He snickered insensitively, and picked the knife with the longest blade from the row. "The path's about to be cleared, though."

* * *

In the dim moonlight shining in through the Jeep's windshield, Francis' wristwatch read quarter to eleven when Lucille's lover, a late twenty-something brunet man of an average build, emerged from the trailer. He'd been lounging out here for the past two hours, grudgingly reckoning Hindrance wouldn't be out in the open until dawn, and with his dollface right there at his side. However, it appeared the stalking Italian was up on luck.

Wielding his weapons of choice, the butcher and handgun, Francis opened the car door slightly, leaving it ajar as he slunk forth towards the man who'd just slung a bag of garbage into the bin at the edge of his driveway. Furtively, he jogged up to the residence that was mostly dead for the night minus an uncurtained window's cast of an unseen television's flickering glow. Awe, the lady was probably cozy on the couch with popcorn, awaiting Hindrance from his quick duty of taking out the trash as he did routinely, both blissfully unaware that tonight his heart would stop for good, his becomings an eternal mystery.

The soon-to-be-dead man's back turned, Francis sprung in for the kill, swiftly smothering the other's mouth with his palm to suppress any forming screams.

"Wha' va fffuck?!" Hindrance's gasp was muffled into his assailant's hand, the cold, thin sharpness of the blade prickling his neck.

"Be quiet, and come with me over here," Francis hissed, a stagger to his steps as he dragged the very reluctant victim around the fence, onward for the Jeep. "Don't fight me, and do as I say. I got a gun on me, too, so if you run, you get a bullet in ya."

Hindrance squirmed and groaned in his force down the road, his struggle easing none as he was rammed into the driver's side of the Jeep, the blade nicking him mildly in the process while Francis got in. The engine revved to life, they sped away from the park, Francis' knife kept at his hostage's temple, ready to slice prematurely if and when an escape was attempted or a maneuver of self-defense began to affect his driving.

"L-l-listen, I don't have a lotta money…" stammered Hindrance, who was quivering as though drenched in ice water in his seat in the middle.

"Why should I give two shits about that?" Francis asked.

"You're...you're mugging me, aren't you?"

"If I were mugging ya, I woulda done it then and there on your lawn."

"Then - then what the fuck are you-"

"Shut up!" Francis barked. He had his mother's short fuse. "I warned ya to keep your yap sealed."

Hindrance obeyed with chattering teeth, a sheet of sweat dampening his forehead in his maturing hyperventilation. He uttered not a word for two minutes before, "Please, what is it you want of me?" tumbled out in a whisper.

"That's to remain confidential till we're at our destination," Francis mumbled monotonously.

"...Look, my second cousin...he's - he's a homosexual. He goes to this - this popular gay bar; it's just outside of the city, called, um, Flames. There are p-plenty of dudes there that I'm sure would willingly-"

"GROSS!" Francis nearly lost control of the wheel in his shock and disgust. "I'm not a fag! That's not what I'm gonna…Ew!"

"Thank God," he heard The Problem sigh as he swerved left, dipping them into the woods. Hindrance's level of panic was ever rising, gravitating for outer space. "Where are we?"

"Where's it look like we are, you damn dummy? The only life around is trees, some wildlife, too. Critters and whatnot."

Hindrance growled, anger joining his horror. "Please, what are you doing to me?"

"Alright," Francis said, parking where he and Jake did whenever they'd come here with a fresh murder, "out with me. C'mon." He tugged Hindrance by his flannel jacket, the tip of the blade having lightly cut four areas of flesh. He walked him out ten yards, knife in one hand, flashlight in the other, and gun tucked into his pants' pocket.

The moment the beam of their light source showed Hindrance what was undoubtedly a shallow grave, he roared out hysterically, stomped on his captor's foot and elbowed his chest. Francis grunted, loosening his grip on Hindrance just enough for him to make a getaway. Francis wobbled after the distancing man, fumbling for his pistol. Hindrance was roughly thirty feet ahead when two bullets penetrated his left buttock—and down to the ground he crashed.

"That's what ya get! HAHAHA!" Francis' cackling rivaled that of a classical witch's. "I was gonna make this quick and simple for ya, but since you were so uncooperative-"

"PSYCHOPATH!" thundered a sobbing Hindrance, who was squeezing his bloody rear. "What in God's name is your—_SHIT_!"

Now he had his right thigh to grasp at and scream for. Once Francis approached him, he crushed his unharmed foot into Hindrance's groin, causing Hindrance to shriek himself hoarse. Then, all six inches of the blade were plunged into his stomach, just above his navel. Hindrance howled, his agony surreal.

An aggrieved, "_Why_?!" sliced into the sociopath's eardrums, loudly enough for them to adopt a slight ring afterwards. The sheer desperation of the man's plea had Francis wincing for all of a second.

"Your girl. I'm hot for her."

"Oh, motherfucker, you stay the fuck away from Lucy!" Hindrance coughed, droplets of blood spewing out.

"Hm, let me think about that—_no_." He stabbed the lain and profusely bleeding man's right shoulder twice in a fast up-down, up-down motion. Blood gushed up from the deep wound by tablespoons, too many for an easy recovery.

Francis, blank-faced, opted to finish off with a click and a bang, the whites of Hindrance's eyes and a convulsive dance followed by total immobility a strong indicator that death had taken course. The throes were nothing too special with anybody else, but with Hindrance, the view was entertaining in a sweetly morbid sense.

A coppery scent hung in the air while Francis dragged the newly deceased over to his man-made hollow. He dumped him in and unfastened his fly and urinated on Hindrance's stock-still head, before shoveling the mound of dirt in over his body, just as any proud serial killer.


	4. Reason

_Translation:_

_donna = woman_

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**Reason**

_Bari, Italy - January of 1960_

Upon returning from a tiring shift at the slaughterhouse, Joseph Fratelli trudged for the doorstep of his withering cottage with the usual dinner: cow tongue, steak and a container of antipasto. Size fourteens imprinted the front yard's layer of snow in a haphazard line from his truck to the porch steps. The contents of the half-empty bottle of whiskey in his grip sloshed around in sync with his hefty walk.

The goosebumps that had sprouted along his arms shrunk as he entered his moderately toasty house. The fireplace hadn't warmed up the place as he, the wife and boys would've preferred, but it emanated a heat that got them by without going frostbit.

"Home, Agattthhha, muh sweet," he slurred, hanging his coat up on the rack between Jake's and Lotney's. On another hook dangled the limp body of a rat, hung by some string around its broken neck. Joseph's hoarse snicker filled the entryway at the morbid sight. His eldest son Francis was the probable culprit behind this act of cruelty, as he'd caught the boy torturing other critters in even sicker ways in the past. The father shrugged the kid's hobbies off as him creatively exercising boredom out of his system, just as Jake did so by singing and Lotney by hopping around in his cape-blanket pretending to be Superman.

"Work let out fifty-five minutes ago," Agatha said gruffly from the kitchen, where she was brewing a pot of tomato soup. "Where've ya been?"

"Jus' the market, pickin' up some antipasto," Joseph replied, tucking his whiskey into an inner pocket of his coat, then untying his boots and slipping them off. "Meant to buy a loaf of bread, too, but I came up a bit short on chan-"

"Oh, don't ya lay that shit on me, Joe!" Agatha said sourly, marching to him with her hands on her hips. "I could smell the booze on your breath from the stove, you bloodshot-eyed, alcoholic stupido!"

"Hey, I wasn't here sitting on my ass with the duty of just a few household chores, woman!" the middle-aged Italian argued down at his wife, towering over her stout frame by a foot and three inches. "After a day of hacking up cattle and swine, the hard stuff is what I could use!"

"What a valid excuse you make, darling! You're absolutely spot-on," Agatha snorted up at him defiantly, as unafraid of her big and frightening husband as the day she met him, as a halfway homeless twenty-one-year-old barmaid in the slums. "Yeah, it's OK for ya to bring home your bottles instead of bread or milk when we have three hungry boys! Your unquenchable thirst for the shit ain't havin' any sorta _bad_ effect round here at all!"

"You'd be dead or goddamn near it if I wasn't on my aching feet for eleven hours every fuckin' day of the week," Joseph growled, poking his thick and long right index finger into Agatha's chest. "I oughta have you bend over on the counter and drop 'em for me this instant for your cheek."

"If ya dry out for a fortnight, I'll _think_ about lettin' ya have at that, but as of this moment, your loins are in your drawers to stay, bub."

"Why you raspy-voiced, mutt-looking-"

Her smaller, chubby hand landed on his cheek with a smack, her stubby fingers then jerking on the black hairs of his beard. "Cram it, or else there's no supper or television for ya tonight!"

Before a muscle of the borderline colossal man's flinched, their first and second children fussily wrestled each other out of their shared bedroom. The parents glared at the pair who were tossing knuckles and muttering swears, their object worth squabbling for: a box of stale hard candies.

"I saw it first, dammit!" their nine-year-old Jacob screeched, bashing his older brother's head against the wall.

"Lyin' asshole! I did!" the soon-to-be eleven-year-old Francis spat, kicking Jake's left shin with enough force to send him falling to the dusty floor.

"Ow, fucker!" Jake yelled, hurling the full box at Francis' face so it could bonk his glasses that had slid down the bridge of his nose in their dispute and knock them off entirely. They struck the floor just beside Jake, the right frame popping out and the left cracking.

"Damn you, Jake!" both Agatha and Joseph snapped, stomping down the hall to close-in on the ruckus. Joseph took a fistful of Jake's tattered collar and yanked him upwards, so he could be roughly slapped by his mother.

"In the closet for a time-out, now!" she muttered, spittle flying through her clenched, graying teeth. "And, Francis, at the table, pronto!"

"Sí, Mama," either brother said at once.

Joseph groaned out a few lines in angry Italian while kneeling to gather the pieces of Francis' glasses. "God knows when we can afford to get him a new pair."

"The idiots," Agatha sighed, snatching what was fought so childishly for from where it was at her feet. She ripped the box open and dug in, crunching and smacking her lips as she snacked. "See if ya can repair 'em."

"What, are you dumb, donna?" he scoffed, shaking the damaged specs in her face. "How would I fix this?"

"Ya have to somehow! How's he gonna be able to see a damn thing in school?"

"We'll send a note in with him permitting him to sit close to the board."

"UGH, that boy! Where's the paddle? Jake's in for a wallopin'."

"Can I do the honor?" Joseph grumbled.

"Hell, no. His bum had welts that wouldn't fade for a month at your hand."

"Ah, to hell with the spanking! I'm starved. Get your ass in the kitchen."

"Pardon?" Agatha asked, eyeing him resentfully. "Why don't you cook a meal for once, you slacker?"

"Slacker?!" Joseph barked, throwing his hands in the air. "Who is providing for this family? If I were a slacker we'd all be wasting away on the streets!"

"Well, I've had it up to _here_ with your drinkin' and treatin' me like some docile housewife trollop!" she snapped, storming to their other closet where the paddle was stored. "So I'm tellin' _you_ to get in the kitchen and grill up a slab of meat while I punish Jake for being a big hassle and costing us like he did."

"Agatha," he said in a familiar warning tone, fists knotting and his movements towards her gradual and menacing. "You keep behaving this way, your ass'll be getting that paddle."

When they were just inches apart, Agatha coughed up a snotty spitball for his chin to wear. She laughed bitterly at his grossed-out expression as he swept at the loogie with his hand and smeared it onto his corduroys. Agatha's state of mocking joy was eliminated by his fast fist slamming into her nose at a dizzying momentum. A thick stream of blood began to seep out of her nostrils, and she choked back a sob as he kneed her in the stomach and dragged her by her hair into the compact closet.

Joseph was larger and stronger than many grown men, and while Agatha was something of a wrangler herself, she was no match for her husband's wrath, and over the years with him she'd grown to accept this.

Inside the closet, Agatha was pushed against the wall, her back facing him. Muttered curses were directed for his ears as he pulled her underwear down to let them pool at her ankles. He tucked the hem of her dress under her bra strap, exposing her buttocks to him.

"How often do we have to go through this, donna?" Joseph murmured, taking the paddle from the shelf he was eye-level with, and smoothing the wood along her sensitive skin.

"That thing is loaded with splinters!" Agatha hissed.

He clicked his tongue at her protest. "You were about to use this on our son without a second thought."

"I'm gonna report ya to the cops for domestic abuse this time-"

"Hm, but what would happen to my little family if I were arrested? Lotney would be taken out of your care and locked up in some institution, and you, France and Jake would be stuck in a homeless shelter."

"Oh, fuck you."

Seated at the kitchen table, Francis recoiled at his mother's wails. He twiddled his thumbs and hummed to himself in a weak effort to block out his role model and favorite parent's shrill noises of pain that echoed across the house. Papa had been abusive and grumpy for all of Francis' life. He guessed this was because they were poor, and to cope, Joseph frequently drowned out his woes with whiskey or liquor, therefore washing toxins through his brain that would make him into a great neanderthal, according to Mama.

Four minutes later, Francis stood with tears of frustration and pity for Mama, and he tiptoed out of the kitchen, through the entryway and to the closet occupying his suffering mom and vindictive father. Then, the thwacking stopped, but Mama's whimpering did not. Francis was so anxious to stand still and create no noise he minimized his breathing. If he went heard right here, eavesdropping where he damn well shouldn't have been, Papa wouldn't hesitate to whack him a good one, too.

"On your knees," Joseph said lowly, Francis' ears perking up at the request.

"I curse the day we got hitched," Mama snapped, her voice feeble, lacking its usual boldness. "Move aside, bastard, I gotta feed the boys dinner, still."

"If you don't do as I say, you ugly witch, I-"

"Alright! Alright! Mary, Mother of God, are you a prick!"

The butterflies in Francis' tummy went berserk when he heard Papa swat Mama yet again, nausea kicking in at the sounds of a belt buckle and zipper being undone. He was nearly paralyzed in place, but was saved from the shock, pity and repulsion when Jake opened the door of his respective closet and ran out.

"What's goin' on?" he asked hushedly, sensing something was amiss.

"Get - get back, Jake! Shoo!" Francis growled, moving to grab him and walk him far from the scene. "Ma and Pa are arguing. Let's wait in our room till they're done."

When Mama and Papa were done, they fetched the boys and the five went on to have an eerie dinner. Mama was disheveled with her mussed hair and dark circles stained under her eyes. She slouched in her seat, eating nothing, but only blankly gazing ahead while her three sons and husband ate. It appeared she was fractured, but not obliterated; no, she wasn't utterly destroyed because she was still blinking and breathing, not catatonic or behaving crazily.

Joseph said he was off to the bar once the food on his plate had been cleaned off, and following his departure, Mama crumbled, sobbing and verbally damning the man to hell's hottest chambers. Francis, Jake and a dazed and drooling seven-year-old Lotney paused in their eating to watch their mother, feeling awkward and bidding sympathy.

Fifty minutes past midnight, a thoroughly plastered Joseph wobbled into the entryway, dropped his coat on the floor and moved into the unlit living room to plop into his armchair in front of the radio.

Clicking the lamp on in a slow and clumsy motion, the unmistakable noise of a gun cocking startled him out of his torpor. He peeked over the chair to squint at his armed and fed-up wife.

"Fffughhk are ye-"

"Get your inebriated, dimwitted ass up!" she muttered, any speck of patience she had earlier now elsewhere. "Then waddle your butt outdoors!"

"Put dat-"

"If you don't do as I say, I'll gun ya down right here!"

"Christ!" he huffed, heading for the front door faster than she presumed he was capable of in his wasted condition.

Her heart pounded in her chest; she was invigorated but agitated. Finally, she would be free of his neglect and dominance once this was over with, but then what? How would she support herself and her boys? Well, she'd figure it all out in the latter. This had to happen.

"Ice-cold out here, for fuck's sake!" Joseph complained as he stepped off the porch, his boots crunching into the snow. He looked at the rifle in Agatha's grip with skepticism. "You tryin' to scare me with that?"

"Doesn't matter if you're scared or not; you're about to die however you're feelin'."

Skipping out on his opinion, she fired, the single shot penetrating his forehead. He didn't even yell, and it happened so quick he hadn't seen it coming. He toppled to the ground, dying mid-air.

The rest of the night was comparable to a dream; she'd hid his body in the tool shed, then, in a combination of shock, guilt and solace, paced to and fro in the hallway of their and the children's bedrooms. She mumbled questions to herself in her primary language. Putrid-souled and mean as Joseph was, he _was_ their financial source and protector. Killing him was astoundingly foolish and rash, she knew well, but she just could not bear his reign anymore.

Shivering harder than the afternoon Joseph taught her a lesson for her back-talking by forcing her to carry ice cubes in her underwear for an hour straight, she sucked in a deep breath and began formulating a strategy. She would borrow her cousin Angelo's wood chipper, then grind up the remains of her late beloved and feed the raw meat to their three hounds. Twisted as this was, he did deserve the fate, she reminded herself.

'_I'll call him tomorrow mornin'. Son of a bitch can sleep in the shed till then.'_

"Ma...ma?"

Agatha gasped, whirling to face her youngest and favorite son. "What is it, Lotney, baby?"

At seven, Lotney was already the same height as Jake, who was several inches taller than Francis. He was mostly mute, and his cognitive skills were lower than average for his age, and this was due to both his birth defect and the fact that Agatha had accidentally dropped him in his infancy more than once, maybe twice.

Lotney, or 'Sloth' as his bullying brothers nicknamed him for his sagged facial features and slow movements, walked to Mama with open arms, hugging her waist and drawling, "No tirrred."

She combed her fingers through his light brunet patch of hair, murmuring, "Me neither, baby. C'mon, let's go sit by the fire."

She took his hand and led him into the living room. Using the fire stoker and a match, she brought a healthy blaze to life, then fetched a quilt from the nearby chest and wrapped it around a criss-crossed Lotney. Crossing her legs beside him on the floor and holding him close, she planted a kiss on his lopsided head and sang him a lullaby. She thought about her cousin Rosa and her husband Emiliano, how they'd moved to the west of the United States just the year before to grow their pizza business. Agatha hadn't been too bonded to them while they were living near them, but suddenly she was wanting to change that. As reckless as it was to pack everything and just go, and to such a faraway foreign place, there was the grim matter of what she had just done, which was no less ridiculous. She frowned over Lotney, his eyes drifting to a close, wondering if they'd allow such a deformity on a plane.

What she hated most about Joseph was how he completely ignored their third and last baby, declaring him a dud; just a useless burden developed in a rotted egg of her worn, overused womb. At least Lotney's innocence would exceed his brothers', Agatha was almost positive. His goodness was a trait to be proud of, one Francis, Jake and herself should have emulated, but could not, especially now that Joseph was gone.


	5. Feelings

**Chapter 5**

**Feelings**

"Why Fralo? That doesn't have much of a ring to it for me," Francis said, scrubbing at his bloody clothes in the tub-like bucket they used for laundry and bathing.

"Well, I'm already going by that for 'Mona," Jake said. "I couldn't give her our actual name given its occasional mention in the papers. We must both go by Fralo because someday our girls are probably gonna meet each other, and we can't have 'em wondering why our last names are different, can we?"

"We'll just say we're half brothers with different dads," Francis shrugged.

"Let's not complicate this, eh?" Jake sighed, lighting up a cigarette. "I didn't tell 'Mona we're half brothers, so-"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Jake. Geez. Francis goddamn Fralo it is."

"What's suddenly got your panties in a bunch? Just minutes ago you were exhilarated like ya won the lotto from killing that 'Hindrance' fella."

"Yeah, well, fantastic as it is that he's a stiff, it's just occurred to me that Lucille is gonna be quite depressed that her boyfriend's gone poof. She's gotta love the fucker. I just hope she ain't the suicidal type, like he was her purpose to stay alive on this green earth or some bullshit like that. She mighta depended on him."

"You've stooped pretty damn low this time, France," Jake commented, clicking his tongue. "If I were ya, I'd worry about another thing."

"What's that?"

"What if she's pregnant? Could be. You can't deny they made love, and probably often at that."

"Quit that pessimistic crap! She ain't pregnant...yet!" Francis burned a rich burgundy at the mere statement.

"Alright. We'll just have to see about that, eh? Though I can guarantee she's gonna go on this downward spiral of grief 'n' hopelessness, so I'd recommend befriending her before trying any cheap wooing. Keep your distance, too, then when ya do speak to her she'll more likely be welcoming." He watched his brother frown at this. "Or ya can go ahead with the smooth-talking immediately. See what good that does for ya."

"Ah, fuck off, Jake," Francis muttered, leaning against the wall, mulling over his motives. "Suppose you're right. Ladies dig friendliness in a man. Threats and the backhand just won't work in my favor with this one, will it?"

"Wouldn't say so. You did tell me she's sassier than what's easy to deal with in any other woman."

"And I really like that about her. I'm looking forward to when her snappy mouth gets her a session over my lap with the belt," he said with a dreamy grin. "I'll whip that tight tush purple."

"Can hardly wait to do the same with 'Mona," Jake said, his smile mirroring Francis'. "She's such a sweetheart, though. I can't really picture her getting mouthy with me."

"If she doesn't, you can just spank her anyway, whenever ya feel like it. She has to know who's boss. If you don't give her that impression now she'll run you in the future."

"Hey, I was kiddin'. I don't hit women, you lowly putz. I'm gonna treat her like the queen she is," Jake countered seriously.

Francis tisked. He and Jake were day and night in their views and values.

"You remember how Papa treated Ma. I'm _not_ putting this girl through such shit. She's worthy, she gets me harder and up quicker than any I've been with has and I haven't even made love with her yet, let alone felt her much or seen her tits."

"You've always been a bit of a softie," Francis mocked, his chest then hit with Jake's lit cigarette. The ashy stick fell down Francis' shirt, stinging his skin. He gritted his teeth. "Damn you, asshole!"

The phone rang from the downstairs den as Francis readied himself to attack Jake for his playfulness. Jake breathed in sharply, exclaiming, "It's my 'Mona!" He trampled out of the small and drab bathroom, rushing down the stairway.

He sat on the stool by the phone so fast that he almost tipped over with it, and he answered with excessive rapidity. "H-hello?"

"Hi, Jake," cooed a lovely familiar voice. "How are you?"

"I'm doing good, honeybunch. How've you been?"

"Swell! I just spent over a third of my paycheck at the mall. Got a nice pile of new outfits."

"Awe, that's real nice, toots. Say, how 'bout I pick you up tomorrow after work lets out and we go see a movie? Sound like fun, or would ya rather-"

"Yes! I've been meaning to see _Cat's Eye_. It's based on a Stephen King book. He's one of my favorite authors."

"Yeah, you got it."

"Oh, um, Jake, I hope I didn't...bother you when I kissed you. It was just our first date, and kinda soon, I know. I just got a little excited-"

"What the hell are ya talking about, doll? You did me no wrong," Jake assured her, confused as to why she feared she'd irked him with such a sweet gesture. He loved that kiss, and if anything, it wasn't lengthy or passionate enough.

"Okay, well, I didn't think I did...but I wanted to make sure."

"Don't be so timid, Ramona. You're a very delightful girl. Now, you wear your cutest outfit for me tomorrow night when I pick you up, eh? Oh, get the showtimes if you can, then call me back. We'll go for a night showing."

"I sure will. Oh, dang it, I forgot I've got to revise my brother's English essay. I promised him I would. There it is on my desk. Seven pages of inked chicken scratch on themes of that book _The Great Gatsby_ his class was assigned to read. I had to read it, too, when I was a sophomore. Most of it bored me, so writing up the essay for it was a hassle, but I did receive a B+...Huh, well, better start grading that. English isn't his strongest suit. Goodnight, Jake."

"Nighty night, peach."

"You should never give a girl your number," Francis said, entering the den. "They have this clingy tendency of blowing phones up. I can guarantee ya that thing'll be ringing at least fifteen more times over the night." He smirked. "She's a blabber, ain't she?"

Jake shrugged indifferently. "She sorta is, but I don't give a damn. Her pretty voice soothes me."

"It'll piss you off eventually. They're broken records. If they run outta crap to say, they just rephrase something they've already told ya." Francis grabbed his army knife which he used for carving hunks of wood into figurines. He was rather talented at the art, both Mama and Jake had complimented. His finished projects consisted of several breeds of birds, dogs, a fox, a rose bud, a hand, a foot, a miniature nude woman, a horse, sea creatures, and labeled bottles. He'd gotten into crafting when he was fourteen as a means to vent, meditate and mitigate his hormonal teenage aggression. This project would be two turtle doves which he'd paint white. Word had it two turtle doves represented friendship or loyalty or something of the like, so he would give Lucille one and relay some half-baked symbolism to her in an attempt to touch her snobbish heart. "Not that their yammerin' is fit to be bitched about among us men, not for what they can offer in return."

"Here I thought I was gonna have to bring that up," Jake chuckled. Ramona could talk her lungs to deflation if it meant he'd eventually be allowed to do with her anything to his liking.

* * *

When Kevin's spot on the couch was still cleared after eight minutes, a trickle of concern settled into Lucille momentarily, but she brushed it off, figuring he came back inside quietly enough to escape her notice and went to the bathroom. After fifteen minutes, she rose to her feet and crossed into the section of their compact home where the bathroom and bedroom were, and was hit with surprise to see that the bathroom door was wide-open, the interior dark.

"Kev?" she called out, peeking into their equally darkened bedroom. Had he gone to bed without kissing her goodnight? It was uncharacteristic of him, but she paid it no mind and resumed with her movie.

She couldn't throw caution to the wind anymore an hour and a half later when she climbed into the cool and empty bed. Now baffled, she flicked the light on and scurried through the trailer, futilely seeking him out. She jogged outside and hollered for him. Their car was parked, so he hadn't left with that.

'_Did he go for a walk?'_ she pondered, furrowing her brows and anxiously running a hand through her hair. '_But he'd be back by now…'_

"Kevin! This isn't funny!" she shouted out in her yard, panic creeping in handfuls for every dozen seconds that passed. It soon became evident that he'd vanished and was not somewhere here kidding with her, laughing his ass off on the other side of the fence or underneath their bed or lain in the backseat of their car. No...something unusual was up.

She was awake, eyes dry and neck sore, having snoozed none, when the sun made its ascent high in the sky. The police could not be given the benefit of doubt, much to her dread, that they wouldn't step right up to investigate a grown man's mysterious ten-hour-old disappearance. Although unsure what the minimum number of hours someone had to be missing for to file a missing person's report, she wouldn't be holding out for another full day. He wasn't one to run off with his buds unannounced and in the dead of night. They'd been getting along swell as ever.

With the risen sun illuminating the outdoors generously, she re-surveyed the front lawn, coming across no detectable indication of what might've happened. All she could gather was that Kevin had made it to the garbage can because there was the loaded bag. Nothing looked out of place, but just as ordinary as any day prior.

"Shit," she muttered, tears blurring her vision as she knelt to sit on the second step of their short cement stairway. Stumped, her eyes quivered, leaking throughout the day.

* * *

"That was one evil pussy," Jake said, his arm linked around a giggling and blushing Ramona as they exited the cinema and dawdled through the parking lot, towards the Jeep.

"Was it the evilest one you've ever seen?" she asked, swinging their nearly empty bucket of popcorn in her free hand.

"It ties close with some really dirty, hairy and smelly pusses I've dealt with."

"Oh, Jake! Golly, you're nasty," she said, flushing dark red.

"Whatcha mean, doll? We're strictly referring to cats, aren't we?" He smiled, pulling her closer to him, their sides touching as they walked.

"I sure hope so." She smiled smugly, laying her head against his shoulder. "What's your favorite movie?"

Jake couldn't answer promptly. He, Francis nor Ma were ever big movie or TV watchers, unlike Sloth, who was allowed to do a mite more than glue his slanted eyes to the screen. Well, he and Francis enjoyed the _Godfather_ films, and Francis, the sinister kook he was, got a kick out of _The Exorcist_ so much he saw it four times in theaters.

"Uh, _The Godfather Two_."

"Oh, it's about the mafia, right? I haven't seen the franchise, just heard of them." She slowed their pace furthermore, snuggling into him. "What kind of music do you like? I'm a fan of Madonna, Donna Summer, Queen, Prince, Cyndi Lauper, U2...my list goes on."

The Fratellis weren't avid music listeners, either.

"Opera. I can really entertain myself with my singing," he noted with shameless conceit.

"Yeah, you do have a wonderful voice," she complimented. "Hey, can we stop at a liquor store and pick up a bottle of wine or something? Then please drive us out to the countryside-like area off Brimley Road. We can spread our jackets out in the meadow and...and drink and stare at this gorgeous full moon we have tonight. And I really wanna hear you sing your opera with a buzz. Um, is that too outrageous a suggestion?"

Jake shook his head, laughing at her cute, meek attitude. "Nothin's too outrageous coming from your safe-playing head, 'Mona." He kissed her forehead, and they parted to slide into their separate sides of the car.

"I like how you call me that. My dad does sometimes."

"Well, it's a very pretty name for an extremely pretty girl."

"That's sweet of you to say. For the record, you're very handsome. I've thought so from the second you freaked me out by screeching to a halt, just to offer me a lift."

Jake smirked lewdly. "So you completely trusted me right off the bat? Didn't worry in the slightest that I might be a predator?"

"I'll admit bearing the caution would've been wiser, but, well, I guess I didn't get a creepy vibe from you, so I went for it." She buckled in and relaxed into him again. "Happy I did."

"Hell, me too," Jake said, answering sincerely from his microscopic heart.

He drove them to an open liquor store at the speed of light . Ramona had told him before on the night they met that her and alcohol didn't mix well, so once inside, he let her select something lighter. She snatched a liter of grapefruit daiquiri off a shelf. Jake had never had a 'girly' beverage of the sort, and he was quite positive it would not spike his senses to anywhere near woozy even if he were to chug gallons of the stuff. The rum sought out by Jake, they approached the checkout. Before withdrawing the fake ID he'd been using for the last couple of years, he quickly told Ramona to go grab a bag of chips. She was best off not seeing the card as it would arise questions he couldn't answer.

Even in the serenity of the moonlit meadow he was unable to suppress his mental scoffing at the price of their three measly purchases. But to his satisfaction, the nighttime temperature was mildly higher than average for the second week of Astoria's May, so lounging on top of their jackets on the warm grass was nothing tedious.

Ramona's quiet and dainty slurps from her bottle were frankly adorable, and Jake chuckled at her grimaces. Apparently even alcohol akin to soda was too bitter for her tastes.

"Well, I think it's safe to say I won't ever have to seek the counseling of an A.A. group," she said, tightening the cap back on her bottle to set aside for the evening.

"Ya can't be ashamed of that," Jake congratulated, countering her virtue with a hearty swig of his rum. "Ahh, can't exactly say the same for myself, peach."

"Sing me some opera!" she abruptly exclaimed, sitting upright. "Heck, I haven't been treated to any of that since you did it for me over the phone a couple weeks ago."

Not an instance in his life had anybody _asked_ him to exercise his vocal cords with libretto. He could only be enthused to flaunt his flair for her.

Jake charmed Ramona fast with his accented singing voice. She looked at him with something close to glorification. Staring back at her with half-lidded eyes, his expression relaxed as he sang in Italian.

"Why are you a repairman?" she interrupted him mid-note. "Seriously, why aren't you doing this as a career?"

"I am not that skilled," he excused, knowing full well he truly was. "And I'm not being modest, doll. I truly doubt I'm worthy of performing professionally in an opera house."

"So you're aptly a repairman instead," Ramona teased.

"Hey, I can do that easily. The pay is alright, too."

"Jake, I may not have known you too long, but I am drawn to you...your voice, your character...your looks." He could see that blushing was a real habit of hers. She laced her smaller, paler left hand's fingers through his right, moving in to pay him a thorough kiss on the lips.

Jake was somewhat taken aback when she didn't pull away quickly like she did on their last kiss, or rather, peck. Her mouth merged with his in an ungraceful way that hinted she was iffy and shy about what she was doing. He'd kissed and frenched many a woman in his day, so he had the art down exceptionally, whereas, to his joy, she didn't seem to.

'_Innocente,'_ his mind hummed, her head held in his hands and their kiss deepening, all his might exerted to keep from driving her into the ground and taking utter advantage of her body.

Her response to his actions subtly highlighted her lack of experience; she embraced him and mashed her lips to his as an adolescent would. She was the polar opposite of a whore, Jake concluded with a gross amount of mirth.

As their smooching progressed, sexual frustration began to make its presence in Jake, and on a horny impulse, he clutched her against him, then lied atop her, his mouth now smashing into hers with passion that had her faintly whimpering. Fumbling, her shaky fingers combed his thick crop of black hair. She felt as if she were sinking into the earth as his tongue wrestled with hers. A mild sense of panic roused when his hand brushed her skirt up, his knee prying her thighs apart. His head dipped into her neck, the sensitive skin kissed with fervor and the tropical scent of her hair inhaled and exhaled into. This whole new experience unnerved her despite her growing attraction to him. By accident, she shrieked out when a solidness bucked into her.

"Whoa there, tiger," she panted, pushing him upwards a short ways, giving a nervous chuckle. "N-not yet, okay? And not here."

She read the discontentment in his expression, unable to help but wince slightly at his narrowed eyes and frown. His weight and hold on her didn't let up, at least not instantly.

"Of course, 'Mona," he sighed, rolling off of her and standing up.

"I-I'm sorry. It's just...um, I'm not quite ready to-"

"I understand, sweetheart. Don't stress it," Jake said, taking her hand and helping her up to her feet. He cared for her enough to respect what she was comfortable with, and wasn't about to lose her because his genitals were getting the best of him.


	6. Ramona Meets Ma

_Translations:_

_Gesù = Jesus_

_Mi dispiace = Sorry_

* * *

**Chapter 6**

**Ramona Meets Ma**

Ramona fixed her hair into a bun and dabbed some concealer over the tiny start of a hickey Jake had marked her collarbone with the other night. She sashayed to her closet and pulled out her work dress, humming as she tried to shake the sleep from her system.

It was seven on Monday morning and the mere mental image of Jake energized her as efficiently as a cup of coffee could. Walking her bike off the driveway, she pedaled down the road, onwards for Jones' Diner with a fluttering heart.

Six hours into her shift, Ramona was picking up her latest table's tab when out of the corner of her eye she saw a tall, dark-haired man saunter in. Her stomach jumped, but she didn't let herself believe it was her boyfriend who'd come for a surprise visit until he was clear in her view.

"Oh, wow! Hello!" she exclaimed, embracing him.

"The food good here?" he asked, kissing her cheek and sliding into a booth.

"Take a look at our menu. I think you'll like the marinated steak with potatoes or a cheeseburger with fries," she said, her internal butterflies swarming. "What do you want to drink?"

"Eh, a coke'll do, toots," he said, and before she moved off, he smacked her backside, causing her to release a giggle.

He was here not only for a meal, but to invite her over to the shack per Mama's demand. He'd been dating her for about three weeks now, so Mama insisted it was high time for her and Ramona to come face to face. In actuality, Mama would be analyzing his girlfriend from head to toe and for every little syllable that slipped out of her yap. And Mama could be judgmental, and certainly and unfortunately wasn't averse to being blatant and downright rude straight to those who found their way under her skin, whether intentionally or not.

The cubes floating in his fizzy pop clinked as the glass was set on the tabletop, knocking him out of his reverie on Mama's general aggressive disposition. "Thanks, 'Mona. I'll have the steak and potatoes with gravy. Oh, and I have a message for ya when ya get back."

Warning her of his overly grouchy mother was avoidable, so he opted to keep the fact secret for now, but was bound to apologize for Mama's remarks when all was said and done in the latter. He'd have to tell Ramona that new people in her life sometimes irritated Mama, and to just forget about her insults, if any were thrown at her.

"It'll be ready in fifteen minutes or so," Ramona said, scooting in beside him. "So what's up?"

"My ma asks that you come over for dinner tomorrow evening. I've told her what a lovely lady ya are, and she's anxious to meet ya."

"Yeah, I can come over. I've been wanting to check out the place since you said it's along the coastline. It's gotta be gorgeous, the interior and exterior."

Jake coughed to suppress the snort that almost flew loose. Sure, the coast could be defined as gorgeous, but the shack itself? He'd used more appealing outhouses.

"The coastline is…atmospheric," he said. "So I'll drive ya over there say 7:30 tomorrow?"

She nodded.

* * *

"The fuck's the feather duster?" Jake spat, scavenging their upstairs supply closet.

"We don't have one," Mama hollered from the kitchen.

"Shit, I'll have to go buy one, then," he sighed. "They're pretty cheap, eh?"

"What're ya so concerned for?" Mama walked out of the kitchen, a dripping ladle in her grip. "She the nitpicking type? Gonna critique our abode like she has authority to?" She scowled. "I'll be observing this gal hard and diligently, Jake. If a single remark of hers rubs me wrongly, or even if I hate what she's wearing-"

"Gesù, Ma, don't you care how the place looks for Ramona? Shouldn't it at least be a bit clean?"

"If she is at all worthwhile, she won't mind the dust and cobwebs," Mama snapped, stomping back into the kitchen.

"And the leaks and rats," Francis mumbled.

Jake sighed again. He had faith Ramona wouldn't really mind the dirty home, but for the sake of formality, he wished to present her with a sanitary eating area. If he were to leave this room the stuffy, webbed, musty, dusty mess it presently was, she wasn't bound to be too impressed, and Jake was _supposed_ to be a repairman, for crying out loud. Why would he let his mother's residence go to shambles if he was a practiced man of restoration?

"This dump's gotta be spiffed up at least some," Jake said, removing his jacket to wipe the dust off the tables and clear out all the spider webs in sight and reach. "You're gonna be outta here by seven, eh?"

"No, I'm not going to the strip joint till round eight, why?" Francis asked with furrowed brows.

"If you're moseying about while 'Mona's here, you best behave yourself, eh?" Jake said, glaring solemnly.

"I'll give it my best shot," Francis said halfheartedly.

"You _will_ be respectful to her," Jake said, his glare on the smaller man darkening. "One fuck up, and you're gettin' your nose and nuts smashed in."

"Cool it, would ya? And I thought I was one to get worked up over stupid shit."

Jake pitched his freshly dust-absorbed jacket Francis' way. "Don't you ever use that word in regards to my ragazza!"

"Ya mean stupid?" Francis scoffed.

"QUIET DOWN, DAMMIT!" Mama shouted through the thin walling that separated the kitchen from the foyer where her sons were bickering.

"Mi dispiace, Ma," they said. Jake glanced at the smeared, cracked window nearest to the front door. "We have any cleanin' solution?"

"Have we ever?" Francis snorted. He went to the grimiest window and spat on the glass, using his shirt to scrub a section until it was partially translucent.

Jake blew the dust off of an old, slightly melted cream-colored candle that had been on the closet floor. Fishing out his Zippo from his pocket, he lit it and placed it at the center of a dusted table, a vague vanilla scent wafting in the air shortly thereafter. A semi-welcoming and peaceful ambiance slowly settled in, a rarity when the Fratelli trio were about.

* * *

"Is that it?" Ramona asked when the building came into their view from down the dirt road.

"...Yep," Jake said, suddenly self-conscious of the shithole he, Ma, Francis and Sloth had been taking shelter in for the last eight years, this abandoned restaurant being the family's fifth home since moving to the States. He inwardly swore the closer he drove them to the creepy hut.

"Holy cow!" Ramona exclaimed, Jake's heart thumping. "There's a lighthouse back there!"

"What remains of one," Jake chuckled, relieved that her exclamation wasn't on how terrible the building looked.

"What happened to it? Did it just break down with age?"

"Uh, yeah." He pulled into the garage and parked.

"That coast is wonderful. Your mom's very lucky to have it as her backyard. Oh, I should have asked you this by now...What is your mom's name?"

"Agatha, but she goes by 'Mama' for everyone, so you call her that."

Ramona considered that to be kindly maternal of the woman. "She must be motherly towards all, hm?"

"She can be," he lied, sliding the tall garage doors shut and latching them together, then placing a hand on Ramona's shoulder. "Over here."

Ramona studied the structure of the rough wooden home and its sooty windows damaged with thick, spidery cracks and even holes. She assumed this place was quite old, built many decades ago. The railing on the short stairway leading up to the porch was crooked and had dozens of tiny splinters sticking out of it. If she were to lean on it, she'd bet the railing would snap apart in an instant.

The steps creaked forbiddingly as she and Jake climbed them, and a chill slithered down her spine; she couldn't help it, but was irked at herself for getting spooked so easily and in the midst of her boyfriend and his mother. Just because this place resembled a haunted barn, she would force on a brave and guest-appropriate demeanor. She was striving to make a friendly and placid first impression.

She involuntarily tensed when Jake opened the front door and stepped in, signaling for her to follow. He was tensing, too, for fear of how intensely Mama would glare at his girlfriend and whether or not her tone of voice would be harsh when speaking to her. Mama's hostessing could not be seen as reputable by even her worshiping sons.

"Here we are, peach."

In a matter of several seconds, Ramona got the eyeful she was not expecting prior to coming here. Big and stretchy cobwebs were strung from the ceiling and corners, some vivid, others light and thready. The air was stuffy and subtly musty but her nostrils took in an even subtler vanilla fragrance. The candle and its flickering flame on one table gave the vicinity remote charm, but overall her set mood was leery. Interestingly, there were three rectangular dining tables spread out, for when they got plenty of company, she surmised. Four stools were lined against a long counter to the right of the room. A few light bulbs dangled from the ceiling, emitting only enough light to give the large room a dim glow. Also, the floorboards under their feet creaked just as the porch steps did.

"Oh my." She searched fleetingly for something to compliment. "This is...homey."

Jake put his arm around her shoulder. "It was built before I was born. Some renovation is in order, eh?"

She politely shook her head, though she was a bit confused as to why Jake couldn't do some redecorating and repairing himself. She kept mum on the matter, deciding the answer wasn't her business.

"Ma is in the kitchen cooking us supper," Jake said, guiding her to the table with the lit candle.

"Oh, good. I haven't eaten anything since eleven this morning," she said, about to sit on a wooden chair when from the hallway's opening further down the room walked out a man dressed in a gray collared shirt with a vest and tan slacks, his mousy-brown hair cropped and uncombed. A faint mustache and round glasses decorated his face. "Is this your brother, Francis?" she asked Jake, regaining her stance.

"Yeah, how ya doin'?" Francis replied for Jake, holding out a greeting hand.

"Super. Your mom's home is lovely." She shook his hand, his eyes locked on her breasts which were fuller than Lucille's by two cups or so.

"Thanks, but uh, that word doesn't quite match this dump's description," Francis snickered, a scowl burning into him, his brother having noticed where his eyes were.

Jake pinched Francis' thigh beneath the table, out of Ramona's sight. Francis flinched and took hint, averting his gaze then.

"Jake told me you work at Michelangelo's. Their pasta and pizza is to die for," she said, unknowingly terminating the brothers' silent feud.

"Ah, yeah, I've made some delicious dishes," Francis bragged falsely. "Jake here's a big fan of my alfredo."

Jake went rigid and coughed while a brow of Ramona's rose. Jake hadn't gotten around to telling Francis he was to pretend to be a john cleaner, not that Francis in turn would have appreciated the title nonetheless.

"Oh, you're cheffing now? When I first met Jake he told me you do janitorial stuff."

"What?!" Francis snarled, his scowl on Jake stronger and more venomous than the one he got just moments ago. "You told her I scrub shitters?!"

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about!" Ramona said, giving a lighthearted laugh and patting Francis' angrily flexed arm. "Somebody's gotta do that job anyway, and it was you for some time, but hey, now you've leveled up to the warm and yummy smelling kitchen, right?"

Francis snorted, his scowl morphing into a sneer. "I'm gettin' ya back for this," he told Jake, stabbing his index finger into Jake's chest, then stomping off in the direction of the front door, swinging it open and slamming it shut behind him.

"Don't mind him, doll," Jake excused. "He's always been cranky like that. Got PMS like a Barbie doll."

"So he won't be joining us for dinner?"

"No, but I'll be," announced a bold and gravelly-voiced woman from feet away. Ramona looked over to see a squat and hunched-over brunette lady somewhere in her early to mid fifties wearing a baggy smock, a moth-eaten knee-length skirt and a black beret. She lumbered to them gripping a steaming pot with her calloused bare hands, a deep frown on her fallen face and a mean gleam in her narrowed muddy-brown eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Fralo," Ramona said, holding out a hand once the hot pot was placed on their table.

"I go by Mama, girlie," Jake's mother informed grouchily, not taking Ramona's offered hand but putting her own hands on her hips.

"My mistake, ma'am—Mama," Ramona said, awkwardly lowering her hand. She drew her attention to their dinner. "Mm, this smells great. What have you made?"

"Beef stew," Mama said, her gruffness living on in her tone. "The biscuits, bowls and spoons are in the kitchen. I'll go fetch 'em."

While Mama was on temporary leave, Jake rubbed Ramona's shoulder therapeutically, trying to lessen her minor case of unease. _Already_, Ma was behaving rudely for their guest.

"Eh, she can be cranky, too," Jake whispered as quietly as he possibly could. "Those sort of genes are passed in the Fralo line, I guess."

"It's no problem, Jake," she murmured, dismissively waving her hand.

The bitter crow was back out in a jiffy with a ladle, a basket of biscuits and three stacked bowls with spoons. Ramona wondered why Mama continued to grimace as if a hunk of dung were right under her nose. Were her and her eldest son Francis just peeved that they had to live here in this dilapidated building? Jake claimed he was living elsewhere in an apartment not far away, while Francis stayed here to care for their arthritic mom. Even so, couldn't Jake _try_ to spruce up by replacing the windows or painting the walls a brighter, sunnier color? Ramona was trying not to judge the situation, but her instincts couldn't help but be critical and a little suspicious.

"Bon appétit," Mama huffed, plopping into a chair and scooting in between them.

Ramona waited for Jake and Mama to serve themselves, aiming to remain civil. She'd held this personal rule from her youth where she was concerned with her manners and how courteous she was towards others, even those who weren't so courteous themselves.

"What, ya don't like beef stew?" Mama asked Ramona.

"Oh, no, I do, I was just-"

"Waitin' for one of us to serve ya?" Mama spat. "This ain't a restaurant anymore, and I certainly ain't no waitress!"

"Oh dear, no, M-mama. I was just waiting until you and Jake got your bowls first."

Both Jake and Mama saw that if Ramona were to go any redder she'd shade purple. His earlier fears were coming true, so to try to resolve the bad tension, he said, "Ma, she is a sweet girl. Don't misinterpret her like that."

"Well, alright," Mama said, her expression still not softening. "Why don't ya go ahead and dig in, girlie."

"Th-thank you." Fighting to steady her quivering hand, Ramona grabbed the ladle's handle and scooped a small mound of the stew into her bowl. She then plucked a biscuit from the basket's batch. It was the most rock-solid biscuit she'd ever encountered in her life, but for the life of her, she held her peace. However, Jake did not.

"These are cold and stale, Ma," he complained, knocking his lump of bread on the equally solid tabletop. "And where's the butter?"

"Dip it in your stew, and don't you whine to me," Mama snapped, chomping into her biscuit effortlessly. As she chewed, she scrutinized the much younger and prettier woman's outfit. Ramona's pink sundress wasn't anything provocative; the length stopped just above her knees and less than an inch of cleavage was visible, which couldn't be prevented as the girl did carry bosoms that would definitely feed Mama's grandchildren well.

Jake looked at Ramona, apology in his expression. His upbringing varied from hers by a long shot, and chances were she was seeing that for herself. Mama was terse and crabby even when there was no real need to be.

"You of the middle class?" Mama asked after scarfing down her bread.

Jake sighed but Ramona didn't seem troubled by the question. "Well, I suppose I technically am. My dad is a stockbroker and my mom is a freelance journalist, although I am just waitressing at the moment." She smiled. "I'm no wealthy girl by myself."

"Ah," Mama said, shoveling stew into her mouth and swallowing it straight down. "I can't say the same for us. Ya see, I birthed my sons out in the sticks of Bari, Italy, and I brought 'em up there with my now deceased bastard of a husband. We were piss-poor, girlie. My boy here had to wear Francis' hand-me-downs and he's always been bigger than him, and my youngest Lotney was already needing men's clothes when he was nine he was so damn tall. Their pa worked in a slaughterhouse till his death early in 1960, and I stayed home full-time to support my boys till they were old enough to fly the coop and fend for themselves. Heck, ya weren't even born yet, were ya?"

"No, I was born in March of '65," Ramona said, her ears shocked from the sad speech. "Mama, if you don't mind my asking, how did your husband...die?"

"Suicide," Mama said with a pokerface, not a touch strained. "He had it comin'."

"Oh, Lord, I'm so sorry!" Ramona blurted, her eyes wide. "I - I had no idea."

"Tasty soup, Ma," Jake butted in, to change the inappropriate, grim-for-dinner subject. "Won't you try it, 'Mona?"

"Yes, didn't I tell ya to dig in?" Mama groused. "Do so before it goes cold."

"Oh, right," Ramona said quickly. The conversation was so distracting that her appetite had practically leaped out the window. She gingerly took in a spoonful. Her taste buds were dealing with bland meatiness; this stew could have used extra spice and herbs, but it wasn't foul. To maintain her civility she ate away, and would until there wasn't a drop left.

"We had to reuse bathwater," Mama said in a nonchalant tone, like it was as ordinary as how many families all sip from the same gallon of milk. "I would have my three sons bathe together in the tub once per week, then I would go in and wash up myself after 'em. I had to heat the water on the stove because the pipes' water got barely lukewarm."

Jake's hunger diminished at the memory of bathing with Sloth and Francis in the nude, even when they were into their early teens. Only being restricted to a single bath every seven days just made the experience all the grosser.

Ramona was at a loss for words, so she chose to keep eating and listening.

"Mama, please," Jake pleaded. He couldn't remember if he'd ever been embarrassed before, but he sure was at that moment.

"What? Oh, alright, it is girlie's turn to talk, ain't it?" Mama silenced, getting seconds from the pot. Ramona had a confused look on, unsure of what the hostess meant.

"Cat got your tongue?" Mama muttered when Ramona didn't speak.

"Um, you want to hear about my childhood?"

Mama shrugged. "Why not?"

"Well, I was born here in the city, and so was my younger brother Dylan. We both went to Astoria Elementary and the junior high and highschool of the same name and district…" She thought on what else she could go on, but Mama spoke up.

"You bunch had unlimited hot water and lots of clothes, huh? Never even dreamed of panhandling on the streets or hauling in firewood as the sole source of heat during the winter," Mama ranted, successfully baffling the guest. "Yes, wasn't all your luxury just splendid-"

A distant, inhuman roar echoed into the room with gasp-worthy suddenness. Ramona took a sharp breath and flinched in her seat, Mama and Jake sighing and rolling their eyes.

"You left the TV on, Ma," Jake said, standing up. "Be right back, 'Mona."

"That - that didn't sound like the TV, though," Ramona stammered, staring across the room towards the hallway's opening. "That was awful loud-"

"Haven't ya ever seen King Kong?" Mama slurped up the rest of her stew. "Damned gorilla roars his lungs out plenty."

"Right, right." Ramona relaxed, her eyes drifting downwards to spot a tattoo on Mama's left forearm of a three-dimensional cartoon anchor with a torn bright red cloth looping it, the black word on it reading: **SON**.

"That's a neat tattoo. So which son is your favorite?" she teased.

Mama looked her grimmest yet, pupils darkening to match her tattoo's shade. "I love all three of 'em equally just as any good mother should," she snarled.

"Of course, Mama. I was just joking around," Ramona defended, so close to hiding under the table to dodge the other woman's bone-chilling glare.

Mama harrumphed. "You got any ink?"

"No."

"Good."

Ramona folded her hands over the tabletop, an excessive sense of discomfiture shrouding any kernel of ease she could've been harboring deep down. There was something quite off about this home and this irritable woman, but as Ramona was falling heavily for Jake, she opted to embrace this ominous picture, faithful the creepy tones of it would come to slide in time.


	7. Learning Companionship

**Chapter 7**

**Learning Companionship**

The police were notified, and Kevin Vittmen's Missing Persons Report was filed. All Lucille Saxe could do now was pray. She slept by scraps and ate meagerly, far too stressed to have much of an appetite.

Personal hygiene and going to work regularly became an enormous challenge; she was so distracted, exhausted and depressed on the job that she was often mixing up table orders and spilling drinks. Her boss had been informed of her situation, but was not as understanding as he could have been, and scolded his waitress' klutzy carelessness whenever he caught her.

Lucille was an only child and identified as a lone wolf. Her best friends were Kevin and her older cousins who lived in another city further upstate Oregon. Her dad was a deadbeat whose whereabouts were unknown since mid-'63 when she was five, and her mom lived an hour away in the trailer park Lucille grew up in. She had been with Kevin for over two years and her love for him was so profound a day didn't pass where she didn't envision herself in a wedding dress and announcing vows, a pastor at their side. It was sensible that in her misery she smoked through the remainder of their stash of pot, which they'd went easy on, especially Lucille, who preferred to stay coherent the majority of the time. They would sometimes get high when having sex or going to a carnival or zoo. Everything, from colors to smells, would be so evocative and provoking to their senses in their ecstasy. But now that he'd vanished out of the blue, she lit up to put her sobriety on hiatus and distract herself from her grief and panic for his sake.

Intoxicating herself was a habit nowadays, and she tended to snap at the often perverted patrons who'd hit on her, whereas before she'd merely quip at or ignore them. Just the prospect of forgetting all about Kevin and hooking up with somebody else caused a blow of dizzying grief to wipe through her.

Hope wasn't to be drained yet, however, not as long as his body wasn't located limp and decaying somewhere. To her, he was still alive and breathing, but trapped.

* * *

As foreseen, Jake wound up apologizing for Mama's behavior, the unsavory dinner and the uncanny untidiness of the shack even four days after Ramona's visit. She, of course, repeatedly reminded him that she wasn't perturbed by the home, their dinner, his mother or his brother at all. Truthfully, the interior and exterior of the building gave her the heebie jeebies, but nobody would ever know that. Her true feelings were locked away in her cranium where she'd bring them to her grave.

Late on the night of her visit, hours after she'd gone, Francis and Jake lounged in their living room where the second TV was. Slouched in his worn armchair, Jake spoke of how shitty the dinner went and Francis returned laughs which he thought were appropriate.

"Ya should let me play with her till Lucille caves," the bespectacled brother had the balls to say in his inebriation, five empty beer cans littered around his feet.

Jake, not too wasted, bolted upright in his chair, gritting his teeth. "She's mine, you greedy loser," he muttered, clenching a fist that pushed Francis into a slight cower against the end of the couch.

"You scored yourself a damn fuckin' beauty, Jake," Francis complimented with an edge in his voice. "Why aren't ya ramming yourself into those chubby boobs yet? Or screwing her into the mattress, or getting her down on her pretty knees-"

"That's enough," Jake breathed out, the graphic images Francis was animating in his head frustrating him. "She's a shy donna. Probably she's never had her cherry popped."

"Goddamn, a _virgin_? Oh, now I'm really envious," Francis sighed, flipping through channels. "When ya gonna show her who's in control? At the pace you're going at with her she won't be giving ya a measly handjob for months."

"I wouldn't mind that," Jake said, for the hundredth time sniffing the hair tie that fell out of her dress' pocket sometime during her stay, her very indistinct scent on it still driving him mad. "To keep her, I must see that she's always comfortable with me. She will run away from me if I neglect her, and I'll not have that. Can't have that."

Francis, hammered as he was, deduced a big and deep message behind Jake's words. He sneered, "Jake, are you fallin' in love with this broad?"

Jake didn't hesitate for a millisecond in his answer. "I am."

* * *

With every ounce of strength Francis had, he refrained from ogling Lucille. Only stalking perves and creeps stared where they weren't welcome to, he had to remember. In spite of Francis being a legitimate and hardcore stalker, perve, creep, and murderer, he would do everything in his power to prevent Lucille from knowing any dark truths about him. He was an artisan for her, just your average joe who loved football, hot wings and crafting with wood. She would see him as an exterminator of spiders, pesky house flies and rats, not people, and he certainly had nothing to do with the disappearance of her boyfriend, Hindrance.

For once, Francis was doing as Jake advised. He had to befriend Lucille, and when their companionship developed, they'd graduate into dating. Unfortunately, befriending people had posed as an obstacle since his childhood. The only 'friends' he'd ever made were Ma and Jake, if they, as family, even counted. Simply speaking, Francis was too insensitive and inhumane to socialize with others to the extent of them being worth anything to him. No, Francis didn't have buds, cronies, pals, mates, familiars, whatever the term. He protected and gave a billion shits for his mom and he got along adequately with Jake. That was it.

Now, some personality adjustments were mandatory from here on out, but this shouldn't have been onerous, not if Lucille was going to be his desired woman and mother of his child or children.

As it was crucial that he not gawk at her with hungry lust like he previously would, his blue eyes instead landed on a washed-out ginger-haired stripper in six-inch stilettos she was shockingly graceful in, with a jiggling pair of double D's and plump red lips. He'd dream of a nude Lucille swirling around a pole, beautifully exposed and carefree. He'd also imagine those long, smooth legs locked around his back, and she'd be screaming his name for God to hear.

"You're here a lot."

Francis whipped his stare off the stripper and placed it onto the blonde barmaid at his table. Lucille's appearance differed sweepingly from their last encounter. Today her hair was frizzy, looking as though it hadn't gotten along with the hairdryer that morning. Her posture was slumped, and eyes droopy and clean of makeup, indicating, to Francis, that she sure missed Hindrance.

"Don't have a ton better to do," he said with the realest smile he could present, choking back his will to flirt. "This joint's aura relaxes me. The dim lighting that contrasts that spotlit stage, the music, the globs of pathetic lowlifes crowding the corners jerking-off, pouting that they'll never have women of their own 'cause they're too fat, ugly and lacking in charm."

Francis frowned when she did.

"How are you any classier or less of a lowlife?"

"My hand isn't down my pants."

"But their hands aren't down their pants either," Lucille said matter-of-factly. "We have a code of conduct and one of our rules forbids patrons from openly doing that or else they'll be escorted out by the bouncer."

"Lighten up, would ya? I'm just pulling your leg," he purposefully checked her name tag, "Lucille."

"What would you like to drink?" she sighed.

'_You,'_ he thought lewdly, but said aloud, "The usual."

"What's that?"

"You just said I come here a lot, so don't ya know already?" That wasn't polite, but the words spilled out before he could stop them.

"I serve many people, though." Impatience made its arrival known.

"Just grab me a few shots of whiskey, thanks."

She was off and back momentarily, balancing three shots brimmed with a murky liquid in her palms. He thanked her again when she placed them down, then he, on impulse, asked her how she was doing, the question taking her aback somewhat.

"Fine," she croaked.

"Ya sure? Ya seem kinda distressed about something," he said carefully.

"...I lost something," she mumbled.

"What?" he asked confidently. He observed how fragile she was becoming, and the mighty and substantial demon inhabiting his core was thrilled to see her crumble, but the tiny, speck-sized goodness floating about his being felt sorry.

"I'll find it," she answered, suddenly bolder. Her stomach churned at the manner he was looking at her. His impassive profile hid his true response. She couldn't read him too well, but whenever he was here, a chill reserved for him specially sparked down her spine. Why this was, she couldn't figure.

"Well, I bid ya luck with that," he said, the smirk forming on his stubbly face numbing her kneecaps.

"Will that be all?"

"Yeah." He didn't blink once as his eyes were fixed on hers.

"I'll get your tab."

A minor tingle of accomplishment settled in Francis, for their small talk was headed somewhere. All he'd have to do was bear through her whining whenever she came around to confessing _who'd_ evaporated from her life. His shoulder would be hers to cry on.

He paid for his drinks and tipped her a thirty, much to her dismay. "You trying to bribe me for something, sir?" she asked, skeptical, not pocketing his tip.

He put on his common smirk. "Can I buy your acquaintanceship?"

She scrunched her nose up and glared down at him. "I'm not selling any of me to you."

"Hey, I dunno what your deal is, or what's got ya into a tizzy, but I think you could use a friend, just someone to vent to. You already told me you have a boyfriend, so I'm not hitting on ya." He stood and held out a hand. "My name's Francis Fralo."

She glanced at his hand, not moving to shake it. "I've got a lot going on right now," she said, her voice low and etched with sadness. "A lot of weird bullshit. I...am going to have to disappoint."

His arm dropped to his side. "Yeah, okay, I got ya. Well, I'll be around. If you ever get off your shift sometime and wanna talk, feel free to come my way."

"Maybe," she said quickly. She gathered the tab but left his tip alone. "Goodnight."


	8. Normalcy

**Chapter 8**

**Normalcy**

The Hersdens could be classified as a traditional Christian suburban family. Church was paid a visit each Sunday morning and breakfast was eaten at the table, Dad reading the newspaper, Son whining about his upcoming math test and raving about sports, Mom cooking in her bathrobe and slippers, and Daughter grabbing a slice of bacon and a sip of milk before hurrying off to her job. They hosted barbecues in the summer and took family vacations, and their bond ranged from average to superb depending on the circumstance.

Dana Hersden set the dining table with her daughter at five o'clock on the twentieth of May. She had her special white tablecloth spread and plates, saucers, glasses and silverware were arranged formally just for their guest, although Ramona laughed that the decorum wasn't necessary; her visit over at his mother's home had been overly casual, after all. Regardless, Dana insisted they treat Jake like he was the governor. The mom of two had a penchant for organizing an attractive and cozy environment for those who were new to her home.

"So you and him have been dating for about a month now, yes?" Dana asked, tying her apron around her back and combining the ingredients of her personal recipe to chicken casserole into a pan.

"Yup," Ramona replied, forking a bite of the thawing cheesecake beside the stove top. "He's a two-in-one boyfriend and friend. I can comfortably tell him loads. He listens and he tells me funny stuff about his family or his day out repairing AC's or refrigerators."

"Glad to see you're so pleased with him," Dana said, then looking at Ramona cautiously. "He hasn't been...advancing on you against your will-"

"Dad made you ask that, didn't he?"

"...Yes," Dana confessed quietly, "but only because he's concerned, honey, just as good fathers are."

"Jake is a total gentleman. He hasn't pressured me or even asked me to do anything beyond kissing," she paused and grinned, "but _I'll _be pressuring him soon enough."

"I won't hear it," Dana blurted, blushing and smirking. Her daughter had grown up, whether John Hersden could accept that yet or not. "Go about your business with him as you please, but I doubt I could stand to acknowledge the details."

"I wouldn't tell you much anyway, Mom," she giggled, forking another hunk of the dessert. "I was just teasing you."

"Oh, good—hey, you pig! Put that away!" Dana scolded, and Ramona swiftly pushed the tin to the end of the counter underneath the cabinets. "Fantastic, now Jake's going to have dessert that's already been dug into."

"I'll tell him it was me. Don't sweat it."

"Don't act like he's one of the family just yet. I wouldn't until he puts a ring on your finger."

"We've been dating for a month, Mom!" Ramona exclaimed, giggling. Although the notion of _eventually_ marrying him didn't unsettle her.

"And you're awful attached to him nevertheless," Dana pointed out.

"Does that upset you?" Ramona asked teasingly.

"It doesn't, honey, so long as he's not just some hornet. Judging what you've said about him, though, I'd gage him fitting. But we'll see when he's here, won't we?"

"Don't critique him for everything he is, please," Ramona sighed, dreading what immoderate expectations her dad held for her boyfriend. John was not only displeased with their age difference but also Jake's "shady background". John thought it was peculiar how Jake hadn't mentioned to her what repair company he worked for, or why his mother's house was as utterly let go of as it was. Ramona chided herself for telling John about her dinner over there at all after his ensuing opinions.

"I won't," Dana promised, "not if everything he is isn't criminal."

* * *

In the unclean and smelly confines of the shack's single downstairs bathroom, Jake rummaged through the tilted cupboard above the sink for his cologne. A stale bottle sat in there somewhere, one that he'd bought, or maybe stolen, some years ago. As a professional repairman, he felt compelled to smell like a classy moneyed man for his girlfriend's folks. He'd also be combing his hair back and trimming his nails so they were neat and clean.

Picturing her father as a strict and typical white-collar man unnerved Jake because he countered the type fully. Her mother should've been simpler and less intimidating to handle, as he'd learned to handle his own's abominable attributes over the span of three decades plus. It wasn't possible that Mrs. Hersden's atrocity, if she even had any, could rival Mama's, and the high school-aged brother wasn't bound to be rocket science, either. He just couldn't be himself for these people. Jake Fralo was not Jake Fratelli.

* * *

John Hersden stood at an uncurtained window in his entryway, peering through the glass at the black jeep that pulled up his driveway. He was motionless as a statue, hands in his pants' pockets as he watched Jake exit his car, smoothen his dark, short thick hair with a free hand, cough into his jacket's sleeve, then journey up to the front door. John stepped towards the door to answer himself, but Ramona sped downstairs from her room, enthusing, "Is he here, Dad?! I'll get it."

She brushed past him and opened the door, enthusiastically kissing and embracing the tall, tan Italian. "Jake, this is my dad, John," she introduced, taking and holding Jake's hand.

"Uh, hello, sir," Jake said, smiling and offering his unoccupied hand.

John nodded and shook the bigger and tanner hand. John was balding, Jake observed, to the likeness of Francis. Wiry gray hair curved from temple to temple, bordering a circle of bare scalp. Austere brown eyes behind his rectangular-framed glasses surveyed Jake, and his face was shaved. His height peaked at Jake's eyes.

"You have a nice house," Jake complimented. "Well furnished, tidy."

"Thank you," John said. "How are we doing?"

"I'm good, yourself?"

"I'm alright." John fought against grimacing at the sight of his daughter pulling their guest's coat off.

"Dad, will you show him his seat and ask him what he wants to drink?" she asked, hanging his coat up in the closet.

"Right this way," John said, leading him through the living room and into the dining room. Their carpeting was white and stainless, the air was a hundred times fresher than that of the shack's, there were no cracks or holes strewn in the walls nor ceiling, no audible creaks in the floor, and not a spiderweb visible.

Suspended over the square dining table was a twinkling chandelier cradling four lit candles. The chairs were cushioned, and there was an abstract painting on the wall beyond the pair of chairs across from where Jake was seated. Ramona sat beside him, handing him a garlic breadstick to snack on.

"What would you like?" John asked from the kitchen's threshold. "We have ice water, lemonade, milk, apple juice, wine, beer…"

Jake's palate fussed for a frosty beer, but alcohol wasn't the kind of beverage to impress with, so with unapparent dejection, he said, "Lemonade, thank you."

"Oh, I'm so happy you came, Jake!" Ramona said, grabbing his hand. "Do you like chicken casserole, and cheesecake for dessert?"

"Yep. The words alone have me salivating," Jake said truthfully. This meal had to be infinitely tastier than Mama's cooking, he was guilted to presume.

"Hello, Jake," greeted an older and slightly slimmer version of Ramona who walked in from the kitchen with a pan of steaming casserole. "I'm Dana Hersden. I'm pleased to meet you."

"Ma'am," Jake greeted with a smile. "You and your daughter look alike. You are both stunning."

"Thank you!" Ramona and Dana gushed.

Ramona scooped some casserole onto her plate, only to be scolded by Dana. "We're not eating until your dad and brother are seated and we say grace."

Ramona scrunched her brows. "Since when do we say grace?"

"Since our guest is here," Dana replied with light tartness.

"Well, alright, but Jake isn't very religious."

Jake's throat went dry. Was not being a regular church-goer frowned upon amongst the normal? "But I am, Ramona," he lied in a lighthearted tone.

"Oh, it's okay if you aren't, Jake," Dana assured him. "We're not devout ourselves."

"But we celebrate Christmas," Ramona said, "and Easter."

"Me, too," Jake said. And they did. In their childhood, Mama would spoil them with the stolen gifts she could get her mitts on, and on Easters all three sons would explore for eggs outdoors. Whenever Francis found one, he'd hurl it at Sloth, so that by dusk he'd be soaked in yolky slime and shell fragments.

"Where is Dill?" Ramona asked as John set an iced lemonade before Jake and took his seat across from them.

"He should be here shortly. He was at his friend's house studying," Dana said, then placing her attention on Jake. "Ramona says you're a repairman. Do you work for Handy Connections or another business?"

"Uh, yeah, that," Jake said. "I've been with them for...eight years now."

"Ah, we'll ring you the minute something around here needs fixing," Dana said with a smile.

Jake almost gulped. "Sure thing."

"Actually, our water's not heating up like it used to. The showers have been just above lukewarm for the last three months. It could use a little tinkering if you ask me," John said, his gaze solid on Jake. "One of these days when you're not booked, you think you could swing by? We won't nag ya for a discount, I promise."

"Yeah, yeah, of course." An unflickering assertion sailed in his words, surprising him but bloating his pride.

"Sorry, I'm late," a squirrelly teenaged boy said, jogging into the room.

"Dylan, this is Jake Fralo," Dana said.

"Hey," Dylan said to Jake, giving a brief wave, and sitting at the right end of the table. "This looks great, Mom." He reached for the spatula. "I'm starved."

"We're going to pray first," Dana announced, bowing her head, folding her hands on the tabletop and closing her eyes. "John, would you start us off?"

John cleared his throat, mimicked his wife's pose, then began, "We thank the Lord for blessing us with this meal, and we thank Him for blessing us with health and safety. Amen."

Dana, Ramona, Dylan and lastly Jake murmured an Amen after him before feasting. Dana and John exchanged statements among themselves, and Ramona asked Dylan how his studying session went, while Jake ate the cooking that deserved national notification in his book. He'd definitely be back over for Thanksgiving.

"This is the tenderest chicken I've had in ages," Jake commented, causing Dana to blush in flattery. "Really liking the sauce, too."

"Aren't you sweet," Dana said. "Would you like Parmesan for that?"

"Yes, please."

"You'll have to try her lasagna one of these days," Ramona said.

"Of course." Jake surveyed his surroundings. He looked into the kitchen, seeing a bag of dog food tucked into a crevice between the fridge and the counter. "Oh, you have a dog?"

"We did," Ramona answered, a frown tugging at her lips. "Horizon. He was our golden retriever who passed away just last November. He was twelve."

"Sorry about that." Jake patted her back. "You guys thinking about getting a pup?"

"At some point," Ramona said. "There's an adorable corgi at the pet shop on 14th Street I've been eyeballing."

"We ought to throw out that old dog food," John noted. "We forgot about it."

"Did your family have any pets growing up?" Dana asked Jake.

"No, my ma had allergies," Jake fibbed. Mama didn't care for animals, his father especially. When Jake was five, Francis brought home a stray mutt that had been running around a few streets away. Joseph had tired of how the dog wasn't housebroken within the first week and his final straw was drawn when it peed on his dirty socks on the floor. Mama and the boys could only cringe, their ears crackling with the telltale bang of a gunshot outside one morning, a mound of dirt shortly nearby the tool shed.

"You a football fan?" John asked Jake.

"Uh, yeah," Jake said, convinced all ordinary men were supposed to love the sport. He didn't, nor did Francis.

"The Ducks or the Beavers?" John pressed.

"...Ducks."

"Right taste," John congratulated.

"You, Dad, and I have to explain to the guy next door why they kick ass," Dylan spoke up, earning a chuckle from John and a scowl from Dana.

Dana looked at Jake's emptying plate. "Don't hesitate to get seconds."

"I certainly won't." He was grateful the talk of football ceased. He couldn't summarize the duty of the quarterback to save his life.

"Cheesecake time!" Ramona beamed, springing from her seat, hungrier for it than anyone else.

"I hope you don't mind she tore into it earlier, so there's a few chunks missing from a corner," Dana said sheepishly.

Jake laughed. "No trouble at all, ma'am."

Ramona ambled out of the kitchen with the tin and a spatula. Setting it down, she promptly helped herself. Jake highly revered Ramona's tendency to not fixate on her body image. She was not chubby, nor twig-thin. Her thighs were on the thicker side and her breasts were bigger and fuller than her mother's. Jake craved not for the dessert but for their bodies to entwine, for his hands to caress her curves, and his lips snapped together to jam the gush of saliva his muse had stirred. He reminisced about his childhood baths, sharing a moldy loofah with Sloth and Francis, in fear that he'd spring an erection right there at the normal family's table.

**...**

"Mine's the third door down on the left," Ramona said, leading Jake up the carpeted staircase, towards her bedroom.

Jake looked at the multitude of family photos and portraits hung on both the left and right walls down the upstairs hall. The first picture of the right row showed a pig-tailed, toddler-aged Ramona in Dana's lap, John sitting cross-legged alongside, their background a sunny, mowed park field. Her infant brother popped up in the third picture down, and the photo at the very end of this wall was taken perhaps a year earlier, as their looks matched the present, except Ramona's hair was shorter and fluffier in the photo. Jake wasn't ashamed to envy the Hersden gallery because the Fratelli gallery was at a bare minimum.

"Here we are, stud," she said, pushing her door open and stepping inside. The room was moderately spacious and as girly as it could be with its pink wallpaper, canopy bed, vanity, and floral window curtains. Posters of popular bands and singers covered much of the walls, and cut-outs of KISS and Duran Duran band members were taped to her dresser drawers. On her desk was a pail of paint brushes and colored pencils, heaps of paper, and multiple paint kits.

She produced a large portfolio from her closet and removed its contents. "These are my paintings and drawings. I have them dated at the bottom corners. Some of my earliest projects in here date back six years, so those aren't too good, but my newer ones are okay...well, better than okay." She giggled at her mini boast. "You can sit on my bed and check those out while I go pee real quick."

Jake nodded and began flipping through the stack once she was across the hall, in the bathroom. She was talented, he decided upon examining several artworks. Her sketches of a blond dog who was probably her dead pet Horizon qualified for a State competition in his eyes. The shading and contours were exemplary, and he could tell she'd put plenty of effort, time and energy into her landscape and nature paintings. Her self portraits weren't bad, either. She was an ameteur artist, but had potential to go places if and when she gathered the confidence and inspiration.

As Jake bent down to pick up a fallen colorful and detailed drawing of overlapping, fluttering butterflies, he saw a crumpled pair of violet panties a short ways beneath the bed. When the libidinous part of his brain processed how they were likely unwashed, he snatched the garment and held them inside-out against his nostrils, sniffing long and hard. The art strewn over the duvet was utterly forgotten about as the lingering faint odor that clung to the clothe sent a rush of blood to his groin, his lustful instincts spiraling madly into overdrive. Keeping them masked over his nose, he inhaled and exhaled rhythmically—the noise of the toilet flushing knocking his sobriety back in like a punch to his jugular. Jake pocketed the panties in a flash and eyed a random painting when Ramona re-entered the vicinity.

"These are amazin', peach!" Jake said with improvised enthusiasm, his arousal not diminishing.

"Oh, thanks!" She smiled, plopping next to him, her hips pressed against his. "I invest myself in this stuff in my free time. Which is your favorite?" she asked, flushing.

"Uh, this one here." He took an uncolored self portrait where she was drawn from her torso and above. "It's drawn almost as beautiful as you are in real life."

"You're too sweet," she said, snuggling against him. "You've had my heart for a few weeks now and you still bathe me in flirty compliments."

"I mean what I say, though," Jake insisted, pulling her onto his lap. "You're the sun in my sky."

She parted her lips to thank him but the words were jammed in her throat to stay when he yanked her in for a fierce kiss. His mouth and hands were as greedy as the night they'd made-out in the meadow, although this instance wasn't as comforting or private because her parents and brother were just downstairs.

He held on to her body for dear life as she straddled him, struggling to exercise her moistening lips against his with his skill. Their noses bumped and their smacking would've gone overheard if someone were halfway down the hall. Ramona's caution matured as Jake's actions did. When his big, warm hands slid under her shirt, his fingers unclasping her bra, she pushed him away, borderline frantic.

"Slow down," she gasped, his fingers tracing the dip of her back. Reading his annoyed expression, her stomach muscles clenched. Her fingers swam through his hair and she whispered, "I'd rather do more...intimate things when we're alone, not with my family around, you know?"

His countenance softened and he nodded, his touch relocating to her waist. "I get it, it's alright, 'Mone."

"How about we...continue in your jeep?" she suggested. "We can park behind a closed shop, say midnight tonight?"

Jake could've sworn he misheard her. Was his little prude flowering into a temptress? Had his prayers been answered?

"What, baby, you gonna sneak out once your mama and daddy are fast asleep?" he teased, pecking her chin. "Just like ya did when ya were in high school, eh?"

"Actually, I didn't. I wasn't a partier then, either. Your rare Goodie Two Shoes," she said. "Doing this will be the closest I've ever come to breaking a rule, even though I'm not breaking any rules…" she laughed. "It'll just feel like I am."

He snickered. "Yeah, I'll take ya someplace dark and empty, but if I do, you have to show me how naughty you can be for me."

"I'll try," she murmured, getting to her feet and taking his hand. "Let's go back downstairs before they think we're messing around up here."

"I'm sure you're too late." He followed behind her, enthralled for what was to come at midnight.


	9. Church

**Chapter 9**

**Church **

Parked on a trail in the woods, hundreds of trees and bushes circling them, Jake crawled all over Ramona in the spacious trunk of his jeep, her blouse draped on the passenger's seat, and her skirt rumpled up her waist as she smashed her puckered lips against his. His fingers disappeared into her curls as he lied in between her thighs, still fully clothed, on the edge of giving in to his carnal urges. If and when resistance did part, she'd be nude and ripped into in a fraction of a second.

Her squeaks and tiny moans inflamed his sexual appetite, so he moved on to tugging at her bra's band. She stiffened under his advancements as a virginal apprehension conquered her more confident and adventurous mindset.

"Don't be shy for me, baby," he spoke into her ear, nibbling on the lobe.

She breathed in and out erratically, nodding with nervy approval. "It's just no guy's seen them before."

"Ya mean your breasts?" he asked softly.

"Well, those, and...you know, down there."

The seductive devil in Jake cheered at her confession. So she _was_ still pure.

"My modest peach," he sighed, trailing kisses along her neck and bare shoulder. "You're going to let me take a nice, long look at them here, eh?"

"Yeah...you can see them," she said, cueing him to unhook and rid the green undergarment. Her flesh warmed up as if the sun was just outside the car, his leering eyes dead on her exposed, jiggling breasts. Gripping each one tenderly, he traveled down her body.

She pulled his shirt off and ran her hands over his hairy chest, murmuring, "Let me kiss your neck," when his head was moving too far south. Eventually she'd have to tell him she didn't want to have her virginity taken in the trunk of his car, romantic as the setting was.

He grunted morosely; the waistband of her panties was in his fingers and he'd rather backtalk Mama than surrender it, but they had all night, he figured, so he shifted himself upright to sit on his knees and took her into a secure embrace. She looped her arms around his neck, biting and sucking on his chin and collarbone. As she buried her face in his tuft of chest hairs, he took hold of her underwear for a second time, but just as he peeled them down past her buttocks, she flinched back, shaking her head.

"Not here, like this, Jake," she said with some regret. "I think in your bed would be better, with a condom and maybe a towel, for if I bleed."

His expression could've been imaged for the dictionary's definition of disappointment. "You're sure? You can lie on my jacket. I don't care if you get blood on it. And I'll, uh, pull-out."

"That's not very gentlemanly," she taunted, her hand slithering downwards unsuspectingly. "Here, I'll try to make it up to you." Her focus on his fly, she clumsily unfastened the button and zipper, then pushed his pants and boxers down, her bout of bravery diminishing upon seeing a real-life penis.

"Oh, that's more graphic than the bio book's was," she laughed.

Breathing huskily, he teased, "And bigger, eh?"

"You cocky son of a gun," she giggled, skimming his length with her index finger. Her beam melting, she said, "Sorry if this is sloppy."

"Your little virgin hands'll improve with practice, love," he assured her, his forehead on hers. She took him. A foreign sensation akin to dominance hatched in the core of her being, the look on his face a fusion of strain and relief. It was a look she'd only seen on men in movies and read about in books.

"Oh, fuck, 'Mona."

She flushed deeper. "Um, was that okay?" she asked with quiet delicacy a chef would use with a food critic dining on their recipe.

"It was fuckin' beautiful," he replied, a stoical expression growing on his face as he ogled her covered private parts. "Now lay back down for me."

"Oh, Jake, you don't have to-"

"On your back," he requested, seizing her predatorily. "I'm gonna make you scream and cry."

Meekly, she did as she was told.

The forest's insect and animal inhabitants skirting the jeep were spectators to Ramona's womanly racket, and if she were just pitches louder, she might've woken up the murdered corpses buried nearby.

**...**

Coming out of his slumber at the crack of dawn, Jake sat up and stretched out his sore limbs and joints. Sleeping on the car floor was not comfortable, Ramona would see for herself whenever she returned to consciousness.

His eyes stung from the ray of sunlight streaming in through the windshield, and once he blinked several times, waiting for his retinas to adjust to the light, he opened the trunk door and climbed out, stark naked, into the wilderness. He plodded to the nearest tree with aching legs, urinated on the bark, and got back into the jeep, reclosing them in. Their clothes had substituted for a blanket and pillow, though her head was propped on his chest most of the night, his right arm linked around her, holding her tightly.

Jake could have admired Ramona's nudity right here in this trunk for centuries. Her snoozing, lightly snoring form was breathtaking to him, as was her taste and scent. He was overjoyed to now have _two_ pairs of his girlfriend's dirty panties to flaunt in Francis' face. Francis may have lost his virginity first, but he'd become a papa second, Jake easily and proudly deduced.

Although watching her sleep was entertaining, he had a busy schedule ahead. His apartment was ready to move into that day, so he had to spend the afternoon packing and transferring his belongings.

"'Mona, angel, up and at 'em," he said, gently nudging her. He fondled her breasts as she lazily peered up at him.

"Hello, handsome," she yawned.

"Ya sleep well?"

"Not really," she laughed.

"Me neither. Hey, I've got a few things on my plate today...so tell ya what, I'll drop ya off at your house, and we'll do something fun tonight, eh? I'll probably be finished by seven."

"Oh, shoot. I was hoping we could maybe get some breakfast…"

"My utmost apologies, my sunny dea," he said, planting a wet kiss on her mouth. "Cross my heart tonight'll be special."

"I get to choose where we go, then," she negotiated, removing his massaging hands from her breasts so she could sit upright and dress herself. "What's 'day-uh' Italian for? It sounds pretty."

"Goddess."

"Oh." Her skin warmed, and a twinkle came to her eyes. "Thank you. That's lovely." He pulled his underwear and pants on, then picked her underwear off the floor and pocketed it. "What're you doing with those?" she asked with rosy cheeks.

"Use your imagination." He winked. "I'll call you before I swing by. Then you request wherever you wanna go."

"Fine by me." A troubled look appeared on her face. "I have to pee. Do you have any napkins or tissue in your glove compartment?"

"Nah, uh, here, just wipe with this." He handed her his jacket. A sleeve was already crusty with his mess of hours prior, so he didn't mind a splotch of her pee on it.

"Are you kidding?" she scoffed.

"Unless you wanna wait till you get home to go." He shrugged.

"No, I have to go now. I've had to pee first thing when I wake up since I was a tot." She reluctantly took his dirtied jacket out with her and squatted against a tree. When she finished, she got into the passenger's seat and kissed Jake again before he drove them out of the woods. He anticipated what she had in store for him when nightfall rose.

* * *

"She's kinky, ain't she?" Francis said, a wolfish smirk on. "Did she start drooling when she saw your uncircumcised, European c-"

"Shut up," Jake snapped. "Why don't ya scram and go bug your Lucille donna?"

"I'd love to, but I can't. I'm befriending her foremostly, remember?"

"She a gargantuan tease?" Jake chuckled in his opportunity to deride Francis' situation.

"Shut up."

It wasn't fair that Ramona was head over heels for Jake, Lucille still moping over Hindrance. On top of that, she seemed to consider Francis beneath her, as if he were scum.

His third suitcase packed, Jake withdrew the panties' from his pocket and snorted the crotches of them like a crackhead would cocaine. "Are you jealous, my brother?" he asked, waving the garments in the air pretentiously.

"The tables will be turned one of these days," Francis vowed, his arms crossed as he stood at the doorway. He chose not to go to the hassle of renting his own apartment. The benefit of residing in the abandoned summer restaurant was being out of the law's and civilians' way; he was lying as low as he could while taking minimal risks, whereas Jake felt it obligatory to impress his lady with a place in the city, dumpy as it was.

"What do ya mean by that?" Jake asked, stripping his bed of its sheets. "You sayin' _you're_ gonna have my 'Mona someday?"

"No, you goddamn nincomshit, I'm saying when Lucille's my property, we're gonna have it lots better than you and Boobs."

"Choke on your spit, you baldin' bum." Jake was gratified to watch Francis' face screw up in loathing fury.

Francis was self-conscious and mortified about the medical condition he'd supposedly inherited from their paternal grandfather. He'd started shedding abnormal amounts of hair at seventeen, and had to wear a toupee by the youthful age of twenty-one. He envied Jake for dodging that genetic bullet, although Sloth had his misfortune in common, just a patch of hair atop his pointed head. Their sole similarity hadn't caused the vaguest bond to stir between them, but conversely Francis was more disgusted with himself.

"Give me one of those panties, and I'll leave ya to your devices."

"Fuck off."

"Can't I at least have the pair that stinks less?" he implored. Jake's scowl nailed into Francis, who'd have been obliterated then and there if looks could kill, but he still wasn't fazed. "C'mon."

"You'll have to tussle me for it like we did for the panties you stole out of the girls' locker room at the YMCA back in our teens," Jake negotiated, and just as the fellow pervert lunged at him, he stuck his foot out and tripped him, then snorted, jogging out of his former bedroom, towards the shack's front door.

"Hey, ya don't get dibs on the jeep, Jake!" Francis hollered, pursuing him outside. "Both Ma and I need it on the daily."

"Eh, just jack a new car." The suitcases, pillow, sheets and blanket were piled in the trunk, his mattress already fastened to the roof of the car.

"Ma's gonna have something to say about this," Francis warned, speaking of the devil, as the very woman stomped out.

"You go elsewhere to stay, you get your own damn car," Mama said, siding with her eldest son as always, in Jake's eyes.

"But, Ma-"

"No buts, Jake! I'll let ya drive your crap over there, then ya gotta come right back 'cause the jeep's here to stay."

"Ugh, alright, si, Mama," Jake conceded. His schedule extended as he tacked on the need to rob somebody of their vehicle, implementing a ski mask, threatening tone of voice, and pistol. That method was their key to possessing their latest 'family drive', the jeep, a year earlier, after their old station wagon's engine smoked one late winter morning, obscuring Mama's line of sight, causing her to careen into a ditch and scramble out and down the lone road as the smoke thickened, shaded a gray dark as her soul. Stranded, she'd charged five miles home, in her exhaustion freeing the few bags of groceries she'd rescued from her sore fingers onto the porch, greeting her cozy, unaware sons with her own, special brand of rage, loading their ears with enough of it to give them scalding migraines. The memory wasn't charming, but they'd swiped a new, enhanced car in the end.

"Well, see you two in an hour or so. I'm going to organize my apartment somewhat before returning." He drove off down the dirt road with plans to hustle, Ramona's evening treat for him his chief motive.

The apartment's adjoining parking lot had fissures that could pop tires, but this was to Jake's minimal concern. He collected his third floor suite's key from the landlord and stepped into blackness through his destination's door, having to fumble around the walls to his right and left to locate the light switch. The main room was two thirds the size of the shack's, and it was barren except for the light gray carpeting and an abandoned raggedy armchair.

'_Great, no television,'_ he glumly thought, carrying his suitcases into the single bedroom, the bathroom directly across, and the compact six-by-six foot laundry room at the hall's extremity. The kitchen was mildly roomier than the laundry room, opening into the upper left side of the main room. A refrigerator, oven and sink were available, but there was no microwave or toaster to complete it, much to his chagrin.

He tossed his luggage into the center of the bedroom, then left to acquire his mattress from where it lied tethered atop the jeep. He dragged the spring and cotton material-filled case through the apartment's lobby, to the thankfully fixed elevator. His muscles still sore from his nightly rest in the trunk, he doubted heaving the thing up three flights of stairs would have done his pain well.

Making the bed, a vision of Ramona spread over the sheets as he thrust into her animated in his mind. Even when he put his curtains on his window's rod, he imagined banging his lover against the sill, her orgasm musical. Instead of shunning these lewd daydreams away, he had fun with his pretending, assured they would be real in due course.

He sloppily hung his shirts and jackets up in the closet and folded his pants and underwear into the dresser drawers. His shampoo was set inside the cupboard below the bathroom sink, the bathtub prompting an idea. Once Ramona's innocence belonged to him, they'd bathe together in balmy water and bubbles with the company of a bottle of champagne, or soda, if she wanted. While they soaked, he'd ask her to move in with him.

Sometime that week he'd run out to the market and purchase condoms just to appease his lady, though he hated them like Francis did his balding head. He didn't know whether Ramona's surprise for him was sex or dinner, but he assumed the latter because she had work tomorrow and would be the sorest waitress in the diner if she were thoroughly wrestled with all night.

So the upcoming Friday would be best for her, Jake reasoned. He'd cook them dinner, bring her over, and see to it that she ended up in his bed, naked, tired and tousled by twilight.

In the meantime, he had to return the Jeep and land his felonious paws on another car a distance outside of the city. The clock ticking, he set out to accomplish.

* * *

A partially chipped, bright red Chevy pickup truck stopped in the Hersden's driveway at eight o'clock. Jake fished through his new stolen car's glove compartment for a matchbox, his Zippo on his nightstand back at the apartment. Finding nothing of the like in there, he ignored his nicotine craving and snapped the compartment shut, the pistol he'd threatened the previous owner with buried under the registration and a pair of Ramona's panties. The Chevy's previous owner was an old man looking to be in his mid-to-late sixties, so holding him at gunpoint and commanding that he surrender his truck had been relatively simple for Jake.

Ramona walked out into the driveway a few spins of the minute hand after he'd parked, her curly hair up in a bun, and a conservative satin gown hugging her figure. She gaped at the change of vehicle.

"One of my cousins offered this to me since he got a new one recently," Jake explained, effectively masking the statement's falsehood. "I gave Francis the Jeep."

"Oh, it's nice! He let you keep it for free?"

"Yep."

"That was cool of him." She climbed into the passenger's side and clicked her seatbelt in. "Drive us to Castor Road, and I'll tell you where to park from there."

The front of his pants felt snugger at her unrevealing words. He had a wonderful, selfish hunch that she was fixing to pamper him, and the self-effacing dress was just to delude him. He'd be finding out the truth four miles from there.

"So that's what you had to do today, pick up your cousin's truck?" Ramona asked with a cute, toothy smile.

"Yeah, he lives about a couple hours from here. Francis accompanied me so he could drive the Jeep back. I needed my phone connection fixed, too. Remember how I told ya the line was fuzzy all of the sudden some seven weeks ago?"

Ramona nodded. "And you just now decided to fix that, huh?"

"Eh, it wasn't my first priority. And I'm over at my Ma's a lot, so I just use her phone. I wasn't really making many calls anyway, till I met you."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Um, is that so?"

He brought her left hand to his lips to smooch her knuckles. "It is."

"Jake, I love you."

A whoosh of relief and pride struck. "I do you, my dea," he replied easily, rewarding the back of her hand with another kiss. "But you already knew that."

"No, I just hoped for it," she said, her expression giddier than he'd seen it in a while.

Arriving, they walked hand-in-hand up the parking lot of one of Astoria's handful of churches. A date in the House of God was not on Jake's mental list of places he'd expected to visit that night. In his entire life, he'd never stepped foot in a church, nor had he even been too close to one. In all frankness, he feared he'd burst into flames immediately upon entering the edifice, but Ramona's thrill to be here with him was lucid. There was no way in hell he'd halt in his tracks, refusing to venture any further.

"We were here just this morning," Ramona said, leading him nearer to the broad front doors. "You haven't been here, have you?"

"No." He gulped as his eyes locked on the giant, intimidating cross stretching off the roof. It symbolized everything he wasn't, let him know his kind didn't belong in a sanctum of holiness but a ditch of hellfire for his load of committed sins he had yet to be sorry for.

"It's open for forty more minutes, and nobody else is here except for Reverend Taye who's probably in his office, so I thought it'd be a splendid time to show you around inside. It's ethereal, in vibe and appearance, even though I'm used to it from seeing it each Sunday for the last twenty years."

She pushed them through the doors, into the massive, towering room lined with rows of polished, wooden pews, every window high above made of stained glass, depicting holy images that cast a peaceful glow of the orange sunset. A large crucifix was mounted on the wall behind the podium on the stage in front. The pillars, snow-white as Ramona's gown, were eye candy almost as sweet as the windows.

Jake barely deciphered the warmth of his girlfriend's hand as he drank in the view his sights were formerly virgin to. An inkling of guilt swelled in him, his throat clenching, as the recent memory of jacking an elderly person's means of transportation surfaced. Did God see that no-no? Did He care? Jake swallowed, and reminded himself as he'd done at times before that the tales of the bible were to be taken with a grain of salt or less. If there was a book of truths for him to follow, it was all in his mother.

"Isn't this perfection, Jake?" The feminine coo of her voice jolted him out of his momentary mull of self-awareness.

"It is, uh, an entrancing sight," he said, eyeing the confessional past the right's middle pew. Oh, if he had the balls to confess, he'd be cooped up in that booth for months, possibly years, but in the end would his soul be cleansed? Would that be worth the hassle?

"My parents got married here, and by the same pastor who delivers sermons now. Isn't that something?"

"Yes, that is neat, 'Mona." A basin half-full with a clear liquid that was likely holy water had Jake pondering if sipping it would ignite his organs. His being was akin to that of a demon's after all, but oddly, his feet were not smoking from touching the holy stone floor.

"Sit here with me," she instructed, perched on the front left pew. He did, lacing his arm around her middle. "I was baptised right by that podium when I was a baby. So was Dylan. This could be psychosomatic, but I've felt this bond of sorts with God all my life. This bond is what inspires me to carry out what good I can. I donate to charity occasionally, and I'm paying for a thick portion of Dylan's tuition, as I think I told you. Whenever I do a good deed, even if it's something kinda insignificant, I feel righteous, like I've made God proud...I wonder if Dill experiences this, too, and just doesn't talk about it, or if it's just me."

Jake was at a loss for words. He utterly could not relate. Quite on the contrary, he felt righteous when he stole or, as of the last month, had his personal priestess with him.

"I believe you are a blessed woman, baby," Jake opinionated. "Your heart is incredibly bigger than mine's ever been." His lips swept the shell of her ear. "You're the closest to Heaven I'll ever get."

She tensed. "Don't say that."

He frowned in confusion. He'd meant to flatter her. "I'm serious, 'Mona. There's a history to me you cannot know of. I've been a wrongful man many times."

"No, you haven't," she said, thinking he was speaking nonsense. "You're not _that_ wrongful for your smoking, which I hate and wish you'd quit."

"I've harmed people," he blurted, using her as an outlet that was close enough to a confessional.

"How so?" she inquired, perplexed, her brows knitting. "Like, you bullied when you were a kid or something?"

"In a sense," he shrugged. His mother had been the culprit for bullying him and Francis into murdering and stealing. Much as he revered the goblin, she was to blame for what he'd become. "I've taken things that aren't mine. I've lied left and right."

"But you aren't evil, Jake. Everybody does wrong sometimes. You don't boil down to some...full-blown symbol of all that's heinous, though." She rested her head on his shoulder. "So I'm certainly not the closest you'll make it to Heaven."

His vague admissions were futile. She was and would forever be best off blind to the majority of his biography.

"Would you be my sacerdotessa, Ramona?" he asked, careful not to beg. "Won't you at least be my priestess?"

She eased into him, nodding. "I can be."


	10. Just Friends

**Chapter 10**

**Just Friends**

"I can't pinpoint anybody with a motive to do this...Well, Kev didn't get along with the neighbor down our street...but why would George kidnap and kill him? Or...or torture him? Jesus, their beef isn't _that_ steep."

Lucille sniffled, wiping her runny nose on the inside of her shirt's collar. She didn't dream she'd wind up running to Francis to vent about Kevin's disappearance, but he was there to listen to her while few others were. She hadn't befriended the strippers and was only on professional terms with the fellow barmaids. Incidentally, upon emptying her woes and worries onto Francis, she saw his dignity and how he seemed disinterested in toying with her emotions and situation. He was making a suitable counselor thus far.

Francis' hands clasped in front of him, he wore a fake expression of compassion. He'd never pretended to care for somebody with such immense endurance. Oh, how he was on the slippery brink of rolling his eyes at her tearful, bloodshot eyes and the snotty mess she was creating. Not a speck of sympathy was mixed in with the criminal's grim selection of sentiments, but Lucille would be _shown_ otherwise.

"The police have been useless, they're probably going to close his case in the very near future. It's not as if Kev's some vulnerable little kid...The cops don't give half a shit what's become of a grown man of the low class, even if I do."

"There, there," Francis consoled her, a miniature waterfall pouring down her cheeks. "There's still some hope left, huh? It's only been, what, a few weeks?"

"You think?"

"Yeah. There's still a chance, I bet." Just maybe Hindrance's bones would be unearthed if a natural disaster ever cruised through Astoria and its woods.

"I've never missed anybody else in my life this bad. I pray that he'll appear at our doorstep one day, beaten and bloody and out of it but alive." She huffed out a whimper. "We paid the rent together, too. I'm fucked with the bills. If he's really not coming back, I'll have to seek out the cheapest shared housing in the city, or move back in with my mom. Hell, it's like I've been abandoned without jackshit to thrive on…" She lifted her puffy eyes from her tumbler of sherry and placed them across the table on Francis' blue eyes. "Why are you doing this for me? You anticipating a payment of sorts? 'Cause I can't give that to you, bub."

"How many times do I gotta tell ya I'm just drawn to ya? I'm bored and in my leisure when I punch outta my stint transporting furniture, I appreciate your attention, and we both know damn well you're appreciating mine."

"I am," she said earnestly, her expression matching her tone, "but you must accept that we're not going to be anything more than friends. I love Kevin and will even if he's missing for the rest of my life."

"But ya don't reckon ya'd ever...move on?" Francis dared to ask, her backlash bouncing back at him in response.

"Possibly in _years_," she spat. "Too many for you to still be loitering around for me."

"Hey, I don't mean to offend. I just don't quite have a clue as to what I should say. I'm nobody sociable, in case you couldn't tell…"

"Your manners aren't too keen, either."

"Could be because I take more after my dead father," he shrugged.

Her glare faded. "Oh, sorry. Your dad's dead?"

"By now he's gotta be. He wasn't around anymore, gone just like that one morning about five weeks before my twelfth birthday. He either randomly went deadbeat and ran off on us overnight, or something out there murdered him. He wasn't a very kindly bastard anyhow, though he was our money, and Ma was a wreck for a while afterwards, constantly carping 'bout how broke we were and shit."

"My condolences…" she murmured. "As it so happens, my dad hit the road on my mom and me when I was two. We had welfare, but it did pathetically for us. Kevin's upbringing was poor, too, but normal, as he told me." Her face lit up. "I can bring you a picture of him, so you could keep an eye peeled for him! It's not likely you'd see him, but, you _could_, right? Would you do that for me?"

His face twitched. "Yeah, sure. Anything to help."

"I couldn't thank you enough," she sighed, setting her hand upon his.

"Say, if ya get evicted or something...There's a spare room you can have at my place on the coastline. I, uh, take care of my ma down there."

"I wouldn't burden you or her," she said, but it was clear she was considering the offer.

"Ya wouldn't be, I swear. It gets lonely in there, and Ma wouldn't mind the company, nor would I."

"Well, thank you. I'll tell you if the need arises." She cradled her drink in her right hand, her left still blanketing Francis'. Any additional discussion of Kevin tonight would be redundant, and was dropping on her list of priorities. She guessed Francis was weary of hearing about him by now.

A prolonged silence brewed in their booth, both unsure of what to go on from her last words. A minute came and went, then Francis perked up, his hand rushing to produce two wooden white doves from his vest pocket.

"Almost forgot about these," he said, placing a bird next to Lucille's sherry. "It's a turtle dove; I heard two of 'em represent friendship, so I made them, and that one's for you."

"It's adorable, Francis," she commented, inspecting its tiny sculptured wings and beak. "Is this a hobby of yours?"

"I got a whole random gallery of stuff at home. I'll have to show ya them sometime," he suggested.

"You will," she said, introducing him to her grin.

"Ya have a pretty smile, Lucille. Very photogenic."

"I haven't smiled in over twenty days," she said. "It feels good to do it again."

"Would ya ever model for me? I'm sure I could capture some real nice pictures of ya."

"Me and the camera aren't the best of pals," she said, slightly flattered despite his blatant smooth-talking. "Well, chatting with you hasn't been a total nightmare, like I once assumed doing so would be. I have to get going. If you're here tomorrow night I'll give you that photo of Kevin. Thanks again."

"Not at all," he replied, taking a firmer hold of her hand and planting a sloppy kiss on the back of it. The faint shadow of a beard's hairs prickled against her skin, his lips damp and chapped. The feeling, short-lived as it was, chilled her spine and had her knees buckling.

"Goodnight," she said awkwardly, pocketing her dove. His smile spooked her, as it had in past instances.

Once in her car outside her workplace, she sniffed the back of her hand where he'd nearly slurped on her. The splotch of spittle smelt of what he was nursing: whiskey, which was ironically one of the alcohols Kevin's taste buds had disfavored.

She dreaded her duty of that night. Looking through a photo album of her and Kevin's most recent pictures was bound to reverse her serene mood, vengefully returning her to her prior gloom.

Adapting to sleep in an empty bed had also been strenuous for Lucille. She missed everything about Kevin, from cleaning up after him to being buried beneath his naked weight. Splayed on their mattress, she couldn't help reminiscing about their pettiest activities. Would she ever again come into contact with the warmth of his body, or cook him breakfast, or go biking with him on the weekends?

Following his departure, she'd undergone numerous nightmares where he was brutally slaughtered to death by a scaly monster. She'd wake with a shriek, wondering if they held any meaning.

Francis' pushy and arrogant personality could have done with some reconstructing, according to Lucille, but she needed his companionship and assistance, so she'd veer from booting him out of her life for the time being. He wasn't a complete jerk, and if, God forbid, Kevin was permanently out of boundaries, Francis might have been viable to fill in a chunk of the void her boyfriend left her with.

* * *

A fleeting, tight-balled fist rammed into Sloth's head, a bruise promising to bloom in its place. The incapacitated Fratelli howled out, a fresh flow of tears gushing from his tearducts.

"Sloff swear he behave!" Sloth assured Francis, who'd been pounding on him for what felt like hours, but was only a couple of minutes.

"Goddamn right you're gonna behave! Jake told me all about how ya interrupted his phone call and dinner here with his bitch, so you're sure as fuck not to try any of that with me and my Luce, and since you're _handicapped_, I gotta beat the simple requirement into you till it's lodged deep inside your pea-sized brain."

"GAAAAHHH!" boomed Sloth, his eyes so widened they looked to be bulging out of their sockets as his brother stomped his foot into his crotch. Francis was putting on the wickedest of smirks in his torturing; the heinous activity enthralled both him and Jake, but him more so.

"Take it like the giant man ya are, ya pussy," Francis scolded, swatting the chained sibling silly across the face. "You're a muscled freakshow who's six feet and eight inches of height. If I were ya, I'd break free of these chains, slaughter anybody who stood in my path while I escaped, then I'd rob this city clean and rape hundreds of its women."

The battered brother was particularly bothered by the other's latest sentence, his pained expression morphing into one of total hatred. "NOOO!" His massive hands lurched forward for Francis' shirt, and Francis sidestepped, missing his clutch by a fraction of a second.

His pulse thumping wildly, the cruel felon snickered once he'd spaced out two yards between himself and the flailing, highly fed-up Sloth. "You're a pitiful retard, Lotney. If I had a soul, I'd probably sympathize ya."

"LET SLOTH GOOO!" The only humble son of Mama hopped up and down in his seat and struggled with his metal cuffs. "PLEEEEAAASE!"

"This is for your own good, and you know it," Francis said, spewing out a loogie for Sloth's cheek. "You'd last in the public's eye for a minute before being tranquilized and shipped off to Area 51 for dissection and studying." He leaned in just close enough to keep out of his reach to sneer, "We only imprison ya here 'cause we love ya."

That was true. If Mama and her two rotten-hearted sons paid no heed at all to the helpless mutant's well-being, they would have cast him away when he was a toddling young boy.

Sloth abstained from ceasing his battle against his bindings, remarkably exhausted of his three decades' abuse. Francis had motivated him to try and rid his wrists of their cuffs, then breakout of his prison, though he would never in a million years harm or sexually violate anyone as his hostile eldest brother would. Lotney wasn't a monster, even if he looked like one.

* * *

Vomit of repulsed loathing surged up in Francis' gullet when he eyed the photograph of Lucille and Hindrance, their arms linked, her head against his chest as they posed in a sunset-lit valley. The sole pleasant feature about the image was her daisy dukes and crop top, cleavage exposed, but the mere presence of her late boyfriend detracted from her beauty, Francis thought glumly. Seeing them together, so at peace and devoted to each other, sparked an urge in Francis to assassinate the guy all over again. Oh, if he were granted a single wish…

"You can have that for reference," his blonde crush permitted from across the table. "It's one of the clearest photos I've got of him...well, I have clearer ones, but you couldn't see them."

"Why—Oh…" The bile oozing upwards in his chest was now worth spouting onto the tabletop. But of course they'd screwed and taken naked and erotic pictures of themselves, Francis had to accept.

"Damn, I shouldn't have told you that. How personal. My common sense has been on hiatus for this whole deal of bullshit...I just blurt anything on the edge of my mind nowadays, no second thinking whatsoever...Sorry."

"Drop it. It's only natural," Francis said, stowing his frustrations away for later when he could vent them out on something, whether a bag of flour or Sloth.

She nodded, lowering her gaze to her overgrown, chewed-at fingernails. "I'm in this sleazy dump long enough as it is...Take a walk with me?" she asked, distractedly fiddling with a napkin.

"Yeah."

A stroll outdoors with her would build on their plain but budding mutuality, thereby increasing their likelihood of reaching intimacy somewhere down the road. This spell of friendship wasn't so hopeless, was it? The tedious step towards dating her was all too necessary to forfeit, Francis decided, glowering at Lucille's sad half-serious suggestion that they search for Hindrance on their hike.


End file.
